THE REASON FRANÇOIS had lied to Claudine about the time he was expected at Vichy was because he had promised to spend the night with Elise. She was now living in the upper two storeys of a town house in Montbazon, overlooking the river Indre, which he had taken for her and Béatrice soon after returning to Lorvoire. The house was forty kilometres from Lorvoire, but little more than a stone’s throw from the Château d’Artigny.
When he arrived in the middle of the afternoon, letting himself in with his own key, it was to find Béatrice sitting alone knitting and looking every bit the middle-aged woman she was. How deceptive appearances could be, he thought wryly. Béatrice was as dangerous as her Secret Service name suggested: the Alligator, they had called her.
‘It’s good to see you, monsieur.’ She smiled warmly, setting aside her needles. ‘We weren’t expecting you until a little later. Élise is taking a nap. I’ll fetch some coffee.’
‘How is she?’ François asked when she returned a few minutes later. He took a sip of coffee, and could not hide his distaste. ‘Acorns?’ he said.
‘All there is, I’m afraid,’ Béatrice laughed. ‘Revolting, isn’t it?’ She took up her knitting again. ‘Élise is much the same. There has been no real change.’
‘Has anyone called recently?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ Béatrice sighed.
François’ face darkened. He jerked himself to his feet and walked to the window.
They had been in Montbazon only three weeks when Béatrice first told him that Abwehr officers were paying calls again on a regular basis. François had been livid, but Béatrice had begged for tolerance. Debasing as it was, she told him, Élise needed to do it. It was all part of the fantasy that gave her a reason for living: the services she performed for the Germans were to persuade them to enter into a plot to kill Claudine. If it wasn’t so pathetic, François thought bitterly, gazing down at the people milling about on the bridge below, it would be laughable.
He had always known that Élise loved him, but now her love placed on him an almost insupportable burden of guilt. How deeply now he regretted the way he had treated her in the past, how he had used her to the point of abusing her. Almost since he had first known her, he had been aware that behind the sophistication she held like a barrier between herself and the world, there was a child crying out to be loved; but he had refused to acknowledge it. And now it was too late. Nothing he did would ever make up for what she had lost because of him. All he could do was reassure her that he would never desert her – which he wouldn’t, anymore than he would allow himself to give way completely to his guilt. It was what Halunke wanted, that he should destroy his own life with self-condemnation and blame for the deaths and mutilations of those he loved.
He looked up as the door opened and Élise walked in. The instant she saw him, her face lit up, and she hurtled across the room into his arms. ‘Kiss me, chéri,’ she said, tilting her face back to look at him. ‘Kiss me and tell me how you’ve missed me.’
He kissed her gently, then took her hands from around his neck and held them between his own. Every time he saw her, he felt the tragedy of what had happened to her more deeply than ever. The doctors had told him that she might never improve, but they had not prepared him for the fact that she might get worse. Her once beautiful green eyes now held the depraved look of a madwoman, and the effort it cost her to control her poor, tormented mind showed in the deep ridges forming round her mouth. Her hair, as ever, was immaculately dressed, but the golden sheen had vanished and the grey strands were thickening. From her dress he could see that today she was the Marquise de Pompadour, though she must have removed the wig before she lay down to sleep.
‘How are you, chérie?’ he asked.
‘Troubled,’ she said, frowning.
‘Why is that?’
‘Because you have not been to see me for so long. But I tell myself that it is because you are looking for that man Halunke. Have you found him?’
François’ eyes darted to Béatrice, but she too looked surprised. It was the first time for months that Élise had mentioned her attacker.
‘No, chérie, I haven’t,’ he said gently.
‘It is of no matter,’ she trilled. She picked up her skirts and tried to glide across the room in a way her limp would not quite permit. ‘You will sleep with me tonight?’ she said, suddenly turning round.
Again François looked at Béatrice. ‘You know François is staying, Élise,’ Béatrice said. ‘I have prepared the room next to yours.’
Élise’s eyes flashed. ‘No! He is to sleep with me!’ she declared. ‘You want to sleep with me, don’t you, François?’ But before he could answer, she said, ‘Béatrice, fetch monsieur some wine.’
Obediently Béatrice got up and left the room. ‘Take no notice of her,’ Élise said, not even waiting for the door to close. ‘She is a prude. But I have laid out my prettiest silk nightgown and perfumed the sheets. You see, I knew you would come. You said you would, and you never let me down, do you François? You never lie to me. Not like the others.’ She was moving towards him again, and his heart sank as he saw the smile twitching the corners of her mouth. Any moment now, regardless of Béatrice’s imminent return, she would drop to her knees and beg him to let her satisfy him. He often wondered which was worse, that or the hideous embarrassment he felt when she behaved as though he were a king.
But to his surprise and relief she stopped before she reached him, and assuming a coquettish stance, her head lowered so that she was looking at him from beneath her lashes, her hands trailing along the back of the sofa, she said sweetly, ‘When did you last make love to a woman, François?’
The question threw him. She had never asked him that before, even though he had never permitted her to ‘satisfy’ him, as she put it, and he was at a loss to know how he should answer.
‘When?’ she prompted.
‘Does it matter?’
She nodded.
‘Why?’ He was watching her closely, beginning to suspect that there was more to this than he had realized.
‘Because I want to know.’
They eyed one another for a long moment until, to his profound relief, she seemed to lose interest and turned away. But then she looked at him again, and he realized that it wasn’t over yet. Her eyes were narrowed, her lips drawn in a tight, bitter smile. Like a striking snake, she rasped, ‘You’ve been making love to her, haven’t you?’
François was dumbfounded. There weren’t many situations he couldn’t handle, but this was beyond him.
‘You’ve been making love to her, haven’t you!’ she screamed, advancing towards him. ‘Admit it! You’ve taken her to your bed. You’ve given her everything that belongs to me!’
She stopped an arm’s length away from him, and her eyes blazed into his. ‘Say something!’ she yelled, and suddenly she sprang at him, her nails brandished like the claws of a wild-cat, and her teeth bared. ‘Answer me!’ she screeched. ‘Answer me, you bastard!’
He caught her hands, but only after she had scratched his face. ‘Élise, calm down!’ he barked, trying to take her by the shoulders. But with tremendous strength she threw herself at him again, hitting, kicking, scratching and biting. ‘I’m going to kill her!’ she spat. ‘I’ll get her out of your life. She can’t have you! You’re mine! It’s me you love, not her. You despise her!’
He grabbed her arms and twisted them behind her back. The door opened and Béatrice came running in.
‘They’re going to kill her for me!’ Élise screamed. ‘Tell him, Béatrice! Tell him they’re going to annihilate The Bitch!’
Béatrice rushed across the room as Élise sank to the floor. François let her go, but as she rolled over she struck out with her feet, kicking Béatrice hard in the stomach. Winded, Béatrice fell back, and Élise screeched with demonic laughter. ‘They’ll get her, François!’ she cried. ‘They’ve promised me. They’re going to arrest her, and torture her, and then they’re going to kill her. They’re going to do it tomorrow, François.’
Suddenly her eyes rolled back in their sockets, her back arched and her whole body started to convulse. Immediately François dropped to his knees, taking her in his arms, but Béatrice pushed him away.
‘Leave her to me,’ she said. But even as she spoke Élise’s body went limp as unconsciousness overtook her.
It had happened in a matter of minutes, but it was more than half an hour before Béatrice came back into the room. François was standing in front of the mantlepiece, staring down at the dying fire.
‘That’s the first fit she’s had,’ Béatrice said pouring them both a thimbleful of precious cognac. ‘But the doctor warned me it might happen if she ever became seriously overwrought.’ She passed him a glass and went to sit in the window-seat. She could see how shaken he still was. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, after a moment or two, ‘it must have been very distressing for you.’
François only sighed. ‘How does she know about Claudine and me?’ he said.
‘Blomberg,’ Béatrice answered. ‘He was here again yesterday. He must have told her.’
François’ face showed nothing of the anger he felt at her reply. He could hardly believe he had been so stupid as not to have realized Blomberg would tell Élise. ‘Must have told her?’ he said shortly. ‘Weren’t you listening?’
Béatrice coloured slightly. ‘I was listening,’ she said, ‘but there does tend to be rather a lot of whispering, and perhaps,’ she looked away, ‘my hearing is not quite as good as it was.’
François let it go at that, and soon afterwards took himself off to a hotel for the night. His continued presence at the house would only cause Élise more distress, and he couldn’t go home because he had lied to Claudine about the time he was expected in Vichy. In fact he did try telephoning her, but the lines were down.
He spent a sleepless night at the hotel, turning over in his mind the painful events of the afternoon. One thing that did not occur to him, or to Béatrice, was that Élise’s claims about what was going to happen to Claudine next day should be taken seriously. They had heard it all too many times before to pay any attention to it.
Halunke was counting on the telephone lines between Chinon and Lorvoire not being repaired before tonight. He’d sabotaged them himself, so that Lorvoire and his wife couldn’t make contact. If he’d given himself away in the forest yesterday – if Claudine’s running away like that meant she knew who he was – it was vital that she didn’t pass the information on. But it could be that he was imagining things, that she didn’t suspect him at all. At their meeting in old Thomas’ barn last night, to finalize preparations for tonight’s parachute drop, she had seemed perfectly in control of herself again, and made only a passing reference to the incident by saying that her nerves had got the better of her.
He had been expecting her to say that she no longer intended coming with them tonight – but she was as determined as ever to be there, which was good. In fact, it was vital. The Germans knew about the drop, they were even now making room in the cells for their new prisoners. Later, one of the prisoners would be shot, someone whose death would hurt de Lorvoire more than any other so far.
Halunke grinned, and swung himself up over the fence into the forest. Everything was falling neatly into place. There was just one further task he needed to perform before tonight, then he could focus his mind on the real prize: François de Lorvoire’s son and heir.
Claudine hadn’t seen anyone for hours. A little while ago, driving the vineyard gazogène, she had crossed the Thouet river for the second time that day, heading west along the narrow, winding country roads towards Cholet. There were still another twenty kilometres to cover before she reached the field, just beyond the village of Brossay, where they were going to light the bonfires for the British parachute drop that night. Already logs, dried bracken, cans of paraffin and bicycles were hidden in a nearby barn, and now she was going over the route again to make certain of finding her way in the dark. Not that she would be alone, but old Thomas, Yves Fauberg and Armand were counting on her to know the way. Lucien would lead three others over the route he had chosen, and Jacques would bring the remainder of the party in a small truck he had ‘borrowed’ from a bakery in Richelieu, complete with a tank of precious gasoline. The truck would be used later to ferry the parachuted supplies to a hiding-place known only to Lucien and Jacques. Safe-houses were already arranged for the agents, Armand would escort one of them to La Roche-Clermault and she would take the other to St Pierre-à-Champ. Everyone else would take different roads home.
She looked around her at the sprawling, wide open plains, and her stomach gave a lurch when she thought how vulnerable they would be in such unsheltered territory. Illuminated by the glare of a full moon, too – providing the weather held out.
Half an hour later, having driven through the village of Brossay, she passed a disused factory, then started to look out for the crucifix that marked the turning into a cart-track which led to the barn, a nearby copse – and the landing ground. Having satisfied herself that she now knew the way, she drove straight past the crucifix, crossed herself, made a silent prayer that all would go well for them that night, and then set off for home by a direct route.
The roads were almost empty, but a few cyclists saluted her, laughing at the huge balloon of charcoal gas bobbing about on the roof of her Renault van. Her progress was so slow that a couple of them pedalled along beside her to pass the time of day. She was glad of their company, for it stopped her, briefly, from thinking about what had happened in the forest the day before.
She had lain awake all night, thinking about it. The terrible discovery had taken over her mind, forcing her to examine and re-examine every coincidence, every strange glance and every unanswered question. In the end she had felt as though her head would explode with it. She was desperate to speak to François. He would tell her if she was simply making a fool of herself over the incoherent ramblings of an old gypsy, or whether he too could see that the appalling truth might have been staring them in the face all the time.
If the gypsy was right, then there was little doubt in her mind which one of them was Halunke – Lucien would never have killed his own father. But she didn’t seem able to think beyond that, for the very idea that Armand, who loved François as a brother, who had been her lover … And yet better Armand than Lucien, perhaps. What would it do to François if he learned that his own brother … No! None of it bore thinking about, and she would not think about it any more until François returned.
At last she turned the gazogène off the forest road and into the drive leading up to the west wing of the château. It looked as if there was something up ahead. She peered through the trees, trying to force the van to go faster, and when she came to the end of the drive and saw what it was, her face drained of colour. Parked right across the front of the château were five police cars.
She leapt out of the car and raced up the steps. As she burst in through the door she ran straight into Solange.
‘Oh, Claudine! At last! Where…?’
‘What is it?’ Claudine cried, hearing the shrillness in her voice. ‘What’s happened? What are the gendarmes doing here?’
‘Oh Claudine,’ Solange wailed, ‘something terrible has happened! I can’t …’
‘Louis!’ Claudine screamed, and pushing Solange out of the way, she dashed towards the stairs.
‘No! Stop!’ Solange shouted, ‘It isn’t Louis, Claudine. It’s Estelle.’
Claudine’s relief gave way almost immediately to fear. She saw again in her mind’s eye Lucien and Estelle standing together in the clearing outside the cottage. Maybe Armand had seen them too. ‘What’s happened to her?’ she breathed.
‘She’s been murdered,’ Solange said, crossing herself. ‘Come outside, chérie and I’ll tell you.’
As they descended the steps, Solange said ‘The gendarmes are at the cottage. It’s where she was murdered, outside in the clearing. Monique found her.’
‘Where’s Monique now?’
‘In her room. Céline is taking care of her.’
‘And Jack Bingham?’
‘We’ve moved him to Thomas’ barn for the time being. Incidently, he regained consciousness this morning.’
While they talked they had made their way between the haphazardly parked cars and now came to a halt at the top of the meadow.
‘Tell me what happened,’ Claudine said. ‘From the beginning.’
Solange turned her face away for a moment, and Claudine suddenly reached for her hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘It must have been a terrible shock for you, Maman. You don’t have to tell me now …’
‘I do,’ Solange said. ‘It will help me to get things straight in my own mind. I’ll start with when Monique found the body, is that all right?’ She took a deep breath, then blinked, and began.
‘Well, as soon as Monique found the body she ran back here to raise the alarm. Armand was in the wine caves, so I went straight out to tell him. For a moment I thought he was going to faint, but then Céline came out with some brandy, and once he had himself back under control he sent me for Doctor Lebrun, and Céline to the village to tell Gustave to get a message to Lucien. The wretched telephone still isn’t working, you see, and we had to get the American out of the cottage before the police arrived, and Armand thought Lucien should take care of that. When I got back here with the doctor, Armand had disappeared, but we found him at the cottage. He was in such a dreadful state, Claudine, it was terrible to see. He was crying like a baby, holding her body in his arms and … He was calling her Jacqueline. It was as though he was reliving the death of his poor wife.’ Using her fingers, Solange wiped a tear from under her eye.
‘How did Estelle die?’ Claudine asked, her voice muted by pity.
‘It was unpleasant,’ Solange said haltingly. ‘It was a knife …’ And then, to Claudine’s horror, she said, ‘The gendarmes want to question Monique, Claudine. They think .. They are saying … One of them is outside her door now. Oh, how can they think she would have done such a thing?’
Claudine put her arms about Solange and said, ‘The only reason they want to talk to Monique is because she found the body, Maman. Not because they think she did it. You mustn’t distress yourself like this.’
Nevertheless, when the gendarmes finally left they took Monique with them – for further questioning, they said – and Solange went too, unable to let her daughter face the ordeal alone. Claudine sat with Tante Céline, listening to the wireless in Monique’s room and waiting for the message personnel on the BBC that would be their final confirmation that tonight’s airdrop was going ahead. Just before nightfall, Armand joined them.
It was strange, Claudine thought, that she felt no fear of Armand. And yet a voice, somewhere deep down inside, was telling her urgently that she should withdraw from tonight’s reception committee and let them go ahead without her … She felt dazed, incapable of decision, as if she was being swept along in a dream. Oh, why did the telephone lines have to be down now? She so desperately needed to speak to François. But she would speak to Lucien instead. Somehow she would find a moment, while they were waiting for the plane to arrive, to tell him that she now knew who Halunke was.
The message they were waiting for, ‘Felicity’s grandmother enjoyed Brighton’, came over the airwaves just after nine fifteen. Immediately Armand got to his feet. Claudine, still sitting on Monique’s bed with Tante Céline, looked up at him for the first time since he had come into the room.
He smiled uncertainly. ‘I’ll go and see if Thomas and Yves have arrived,’ he said quietly.
‘Armand.’
He turned.
‘I’m sorry about Estelle,’ she said.
He bowed his head and left the room.
The journey along the same roads Claudine had travelled that afternoon was untroubled. Thomas and Yves had no difficulty in keeping up on their bicycles, and the two-hour ride passed quickly and in silence. The moonlight seemed dazzling, though the strange shadows of trees and bushes that loomed across the road reminded Claudine of the dark thoughts sheltering in her mind. The wind moaned across the maize fields like an eerie extension of her fear, and it was only now that she was approaching the landing ground – a long way from Lorvoire, too far to turn back – that she began fully to realize what danger she was in. What danger they were all in. If François ever found out that she had disobeyed him …
She turned her bicycle onto the cart track, keeping to the ridges made by a tractor. The others followed, and in single file they pedalled between the bushes until Claudine spotted the final landmark on the brow of the hill. She jumped off her bicycle and wheeled it over the grass, making the ascent to the barn with ease.
When they were all inside she said, ‘We’ll start taking the logs and bracken into the middle of the field. Armand, can you go and see if there’s any sign of the others? I presume they’ll be coming from the road over there, just beyond the copse.’
It wasn’t the first time Armand had been part of a reception committee, but he didn’t mind taking orders from Claudine. ‘Is it all right if I smoke a cigarette?’ he said.
‘Do you normally?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then carry on.’
Yves and Thomas were already filling their arms with firewood, and Claudine took off her bicycle basket and began to stuff it full of leaves. François’ thick leather gloves were hampering her, so despite the bitter cold she tugged them off and pushed them into the pocket of her black sheepskin jacket. She was wearing two pairs of knitted stockings beneath her jodphurs and fleece-lined boots, and the black woollen hat Armand had given her was pulled snugly down over her ears, covering her hair.
Just as they were leaving the barn to make their first trip across the field, Armand came back. ‘The others are arriving,’ he said quietly. ‘Lucien’s with them.’
And at that moment Lucien appeared from under the trees. He ran quickly towards them with three others in his wake; he greeted Claudine with a kiss, then they set about helping to build the bonfires.
By the time they heard the distant rumble of a truck, all the hard work had been accomplished and Claudine’s hands and face were tingling with the cold. ‘At last,’ Lucien muttered. ‘What kept him?’
‘But we don’t know if it is Jacques,’ Armand warned, and at once they all took cover, behind the bonfires or in the long grass at the edge of the copse.
It seemed an eternity before, with a crashing of gears, the truck finally came round the bend, and Claudine could feel the damp seeping through her clothes. ‘It’s him,’ Lucien said, as soon as it came into view, ‘tell him to leave it there in the lay-by.’ And not bothering to wait, he ran back to the bonfires.
As the truck came to a halt Claudine dashed over to it, told Jacques where to park, then took him and the four other men to the barn, where the bicycles they would need later were waiting. She recognized them all, but knew only their codes names.
‘Antoinette,’ one of them whispered, ‘this bicycle has a puncture.’
‘Oh no!’ Claudine groaned. ‘What are we going to do? Well, never mind, one of you will have to go back in the truck with Lucien and Jacques.’
Outside, the wind was picking up, clouds had scudded across the moon. Claudine was freezing, but there was so much adrenalin pumping through her veins that she hardly noticed.
It was just as they finished dousing the bonfires with fuel that Armand heard the drone of an aircraft. Everyone stopped to listen. At first Claudine heard nothing, then after a while she too heard the distant hum.
‘Quick!’ Lucien said, pulling matches from his pocket. ‘Get them alight!’
Within minutes the bonfires were ablaze, roaring like thunder and shooting sparks far into the sky. The whole party withdrew to the shelter of the trees to watch. Surely no one could fail to see the bonfires, Claudine thought fearfully; not the pilot, and not the Germans either.
‘Don’t worry,’ Lucien whispered, seeing her taut face in the firelight. ‘It’s always like this.’
At that moment Yves, unable to contain his excitement, yelled, ‘Look! There it is! The plane!’
And as they all turned their faces to the sky, the nose, then the wings, then the tail of a Whitley bomber emerged from a cloud to glide magnificently across the face of the moon. Claudine’s heart flooded with emotion. To think that something like this could happen as a result of a peculiar system of dots and dashes and cryptic wireless messages was so amazing as to be miraculous.
‘Here they come,’ Armand murmered – and tiny, barely distinguishable black shapes began to fall into the sky. A few minutes later the first parachute ballooned, then another and another.
‘C’est magnifique!’ Thomas exclaimed.
‘Shut up!’ Lucien hissed suddenly. ‘Listen!’ Then they all heard it, Jacques’ voice screaming, ‘Les Boches! Les Boches!’
‘Quick!’ Lucien yelled. ‘Run! Everyone run!’
He dashed towards the truck, but as Claudine made to follow, Armand caught her. ‘This way!’ he shouted. ‘Keep away from the road!’
Black figures were darting in every direction as the Résistants tried to escape. Before Claudine had time to argue, Armand was dragging her across the field, past the bonfires towards the open countyside. They were running into the wind and the ground was full of pot-holes, but every time she stumbled Armand pulled her up and forced her on. The cold night air burned in her lungs, and she thought of the agents, even now parachuting down from the sky, helpless and abandoned.
Suddenly it was as though the whole world had been lit up. Armand hesitated and both threw a quick glance over their shoulders, only to be dazzled by the headlights pursuing them.
‘Merde!’ Armand growled. Then, spotting a clump of bushes a few feet away, he pushed Claudine towards them.
She dived in, tearing her hands and face on the brambles. Armand gave her another quick shove, and she was through. He followed, hauled her to the ground and half-covered her with his body. They were in a ditch, thick with mud and rainwater. Claudine’s hat had vanished and her hair was trapped beneath Armand’s arm. The pain of it was excruciating, but she didn’t dare make a sound. The left side of her face was submerged in the icy water, all she could do was twist her neck just enough to be able to breathe, and hold herself there. She could feel Armand’s heart pounding against her shoulder, and tried to concentrate on counting the beats, but the pain was agonizing. Through the bushes she could see the bobbing headlights of the German jeep coming towards them. The roar of the engine grew to a peak and she could hear someone shouting above the din, telling them to come out.
‘Don’t move,’ Armand muttered.
With her eyes almost bursting from her head, Claudine watched the lights come straight at the bushes. This was it, they’d been caught, and God only knew what lay in store now …
‘I don’t believe it,’ she heard Armand gasp. ‘They’ve gone right past us.’
She lifted her head, and at last Armand shifted his weight onto his other arm, freeing her hair.
‘Look, they’re going … They think we’ve gone into the village,’ he said.
But the words were hardly out of his mouth before they saw that the jeep was turning round. It was heading back towards them.
‘Got your gun?’ Armand said, grabbing his own from his jacket. ‘Then use it!’
But before she could even get her hand to her pocket, the jeep suddenly sped towards them, veered off at the last minute and came to a halt. Then the world was plunged into darkness as the headlights were turned off. There was a deathly silence. Then, as Armand cocked the trigger of his gun, there was a deafening explosion that seemed to echo on for ever.
It was several seconds before either of them pulled their faces out of the water, then Claudine tried to get up.
‘What are you doing, for God’s sake?’ Armand hissed, snatching her back.
‘Armand, we don’t stand a chance. That was a machine-gun.’
‘We are waiting!’ a voice sang into the night.
‘We can’t give ourselves up, Claudine,’ Armand moaned, and she suddenly realized that he was shaking all over. But before she could speak there was another volley of machine-gun fire. The bullets splattered into the swamp behind them.
‘If we don’t go now, they’ll kill us with that thing,’ Claudine hissed.
‘I’d rather that than be tortured,’ Armand responded, his voice twisted with fear.
‘Pull yourself together!’ she spat. ’You shouldn’t … Oh my God!’
Armand followed the direction of her gaze. Poised on the edge of the ditch, no more that three feet away, was a pair of gleaming black jack-boots.
Claudine started to look up, but before she had raised her head more than an inch Armand was dragged from on top of her. She started to roll over, going instinctively for the gun, but someone caught her by the hair and heaved her to her feet. She was on the point of slamming her foot into his shins when she became aware of the gun digging into her back.
‘Let go of my hair!’ she hissed.
The grip tightened for an instant, then the German threw her forward onto her knees. She turned to look at him, but he pressed the gun hard against her temple. There was a dull thud, and turning back she saw Armand stagger forward, groaning in agony. His assailant stood over him, the butt of his rifle still brandished. His uniform and status Claudine recognized only too well, it was the same as François’, but his face was unknown to her.
‘On your feet!’ he barked at Armand. Then nodding to the officer standing behind Claudine, he said, ‘Check her for weapons, then bring her to the car.’
It was only then, as she glanced about her, that Claudine realized they were completely surrounded. Where so many Germans had come from she couldn’t imagine, but as they were jostled about in the jeep on their way back to the road, she could be in no doubt that the whole time they had been building the bonfires and waiting for the aircraft, they had been watched. And once the parachutes had started to come down, when it was too late to stop them, the Germans had struck. And the size and accuracy of their operation could only mean that someone had told them about the drop long before tonight.
They were driven to a lorry which was waiting out on the road beside the crucifix. Shivering and soaked to the skin, Claudine was shoved inside. She fell against the step as she got in, and a hand reached out of the darkness to help her. When she looked up, she saw to her dismay, that it belonged to Thomas.
‘Is Armand with you?’ he whispered.
‘Yes.’
‘Then no one’s got away.’
‘Not even Lucien?’
Thomas shook his head. ‘He’s here. He’s unconscious.’ And looking down beside Thomas, Claudine could just make out Lucien, lying pale and still on the floor.
A few minutes later the rear flap of the lorry was snapped into place, and they started to roll down the hill.
It was then that Claudine experienced the first stabbings of real terror. Immediately she thought of François. Which was she more afraid of, she wondered: what François would do to her when he found out, or what the Gestapo would do when they questioned her? A silly grin spread across her face. It was such a preposterous thought that it made her giggle, and the German officer sitting beside her threw her a nasty look. She tried to stifle it, but without success, and this time the officer told her to shut up. But by now the entire lorry was filled with the sound of her screaming, brittle laughter, and it was evident to everyone on board that she was on the edge of hysteria.
A sharp crack on her skull brought her reeling back to reality. As the blood trickled down her face she suddenly remembered what torture had done to François’ body, and dimly she wondered if she would be able to tolerate the pain that lay in store for her.