Dark enough already, here in Bazoches. In the village, anyway, this narrow main street shut in between dark house-fronts, small huddled houses without as much as a candle visible in any of them, only here and there a gleam of the day’s last pinkish light in the glass of a dirty window. Streets empty too: this one was, anyway. Clausen had turned up from the main road at a crawl, following the van’s dark bulk; over the hump of a stone bridge, then the houses crowding in on both sides. Watching over Clausen’s shoulder, Rosie caught a glimpse of Fernagut’s truck as it led away to the left; more space around them then – market square, of sorts – and the van turning now: at walking pace, no more, she supposed to minimise the sound of their approach.
If they did hear the cars’ engines, would they react to it?
You wouldn’t have thought it would be noticeable. But from the outside, three engines – and the others louder than this, for sure. There was some intermittent traffic hum from the main road – a few hundred metres down there to the left, beyond a certain acreage of pasture and the river – which was the quarter in which one might see the moon rising if there was going to be one. Might well not be: that might have been the end of the old one last night. She thought it had been: remembering her first sight of it in the forecourt of Rue des Saussaies – visual memory linked to that of the absolute marvel of fresh, clean air, enjoying that despite being under the impression that one was being taken – bare-footed, on sharp gravel – to some place of execution.
Clausen braking gently. Stopping. The van ahead drawing away, merging into the semi-darkness of the lane, which at this point was overhung by trees. He pointed, and she saw it then: another large police van turning out of a track or field-entrance on the right-hand side. Clausen now reversing 5–10 metres to give it room to turn out ahead of him. About half a kilometre to go, she supposed. Gendarmes keeping the farmhouse under observation would have been deployed from that van, which would have been parked well back off the lane in that patch of woodland – perhaps hours ago. The nearest cover there’d been, she supposed; and risky enough even to have been that close, in broad daylight. If the Bonny-Lafonts had been on their toes and taking precautions, patrolling the farm’s surroundings…
Slowing again, Clausen muttered, ‘Seems we’ve arrived.’
The truck – Fernagut’s – had turned in to the left. Dark enough now for it to have looked black in doing so, hard-edged in silhouette against the sunset’s afterglow. There were no lights on any of the vehicles, of course. Rosie had seen Clausen put his Luger on the front passenger seat beside him. He was turning now – over rutted, hard-baked mud and through a gap in a low wall. There were buildings ahead and to the right: barns, cartsheds, cowsheds, whatever; and beyond, an area of what looked like neglected kitchen-garden, a higher wall at right-angles to the lane, and a cottage-sized building of which that run of wall seemed to be a part. That, or the building was very close against it. You wouldn’t have called it large – as Fernagut had said the farmhouse was – so… cottage, call it… Blanked off from sight now anyway, an open-fronted stone shed intervening. One could have branched off to the right there, across that shed’s open front, but the vans had held straight on. Similar shed or barn off to the left. But in that one – the end-wall of which they were passing now – at the last moment she’d spotted what might have been two cars closely resembling this one. Brançion had said two Citroens, one van. It had been no more than an impression – afterthought almost, quick glimpse and then imagination maybe playing a part, but if she’d seen what she thought she had – well, the Bonny-Lafonts were here for sure, had not flown this coop.
Clausen had stopped – abreast the rear left-hand corner of what she now thought of as the Citroen shed. The van ahead had stopped too and for a few seconds had been surrounded by a throng of disembarking gendarmes. One of them was at Clausen’s window suddenly: ‘Please to pull off that way.’ To the right – pointing. ‘This one has to reverse so as to block the exit, uh?’
Clausen nodded, started forward again with the wheel hard over, turning along the back of this Citroen shed. There was just room to get round, clearing the rear-end of the van. The open area ahead and to their left now, Rosie saw, was farmyard, with the other van and the truck stopped in the middle of it and the van that had been in front of them backing away now to put itself in the entrance/exit, the gap in the roadside wall. Clausen was edging his car slowly forward on a line parallel to the back of this shed: and Rosie saw the house. The 8- or 10-foot wall she’d seen, before the shed had obscured her view, ran from the lane – probably did form the back or side-wall of the cottage – and continued to the nearer corner of the farmhouse. Which was large. Set well back – couldn’t see its lower part because of the wall – with a jumble of black roof-slopes and ridges, two stacks of chimneys, windows on the upper floor reflecting the glow in the western sky.
Eyes down to the wall again: to a timber double gateway midway between the smaller building and the main house. Easily visible because it was standing open, a rectangular opening 6 feet high by 8 across. Had one turned right on the lane side of the shed with the Citroens in it one could have followed a track – driveway – that passed on the lane side and led to those doors. Could have driven in there now, even, from here: on round the other end of this shed, off cobbles then on to the drive and through the gateway to the house.
Where Lafont would doubtless have driven, or been driven, on arrival. Deposit personnel and baggage – and prisoner? – at the house, cars then to their garaging in the shed. Presence of the two cars having become by now less speculative than an assumption. But she had not as yet seen the Renault van which Brançion had mentioned and might well be the one she and Nico had seen at the Rue de la Pompe house, and which because of the way they’d felt about the place at that time she’d come to associate with Léonie. Obvious form of transport for a prisoner, anyway.
A gendarme, bareheaded and carrying a rifle, not machine-pistol, came trotting from where she guessed he’d have parked that van in the exit to the lane. He was crossing the yard from behind them and to the left, passing between them and the other vehicles and making for the far end of a long, low building on the yard’s southern side. Milking shed – and that end of it not far from the house. Exit to pasture in fact between house and shed. He’d be covering windows and any doors in that end of the house, she supposed. Might have been wiser to stay with his van, perhaps. But another of them might have stayed there: and from where that one had now melted into the gloom he’d also be covering any approach to the truck and/or the other police van – if there was a breakout from the house, for instance. One didn’t know how many there were in the contingent from Provins: and not having seen anything much of the dispersal from vans and truck at the time of arrival, could only assume that all aspects of the house must by now be covered, with what one might call the assault group somewhere on its south-facing side, preparing to break in.
‘Taking their time about it.’
Jacqui agreed: ‘What I was just—’
A whistle – double peep, sharp and clear. Clausen grunted, ‘Unh?’ – translatable as ‘Here we go…’ Action swift and loud then: crash of timber and glass – much as it had sounded at the de la Pompe house but more of it, more than one point of entry – and shouting from the house now. A burst of fire from a machine-pistol: Rosie asked Jacqui, ‘Let me out?’ Wanting to get out on the right-hand side, where – at least to start with – she’d be out of sight from most directions including the near end of the house. She climbed over Jacqui and slid out, leaving the door for Jacqui to pull shut and running for the nearest point of deep shadow thrown by the wall. Then along it to the gateway. Crouching there, where the drive led into another yard with a grass or earth circle in its centre. Lights flickering in the house – torches. There’d been no more shooting but a lot of shouting. A single shot now – the sound had come from upstairs, she thought, and was followed by a brief snarl of Schmeisser-fire. She was edging through, upright now, holding herself close against the framework of the open door on this right-hand side, to get a look from the inside at the smaller, ancillary building – farm-worker’s cottage, or whatever.
Renault van. Black van anyway. Yes – Renault shape. Parked this side of the cottage and close to it, close in to the angle it made with the wall. So use that for cover; it was as handy as it could have been, in fact. She crept through and around the timber door itself – which made for greater exposure than she’d have liked – then was close to the wall and running.
Van, first. Bastards might be keeping her in it…
Weren’t, though. Its doors weren’t locked, and it was empty. She shut the door she’d opened and edged on round and up between it and the cottage wall, looking for a door or window – but too close, getting no general view of it – and about as tense as she’d ever been. Fleeting memory of the Manoir St Valéry, that night’s mayhem – forgetting it completely though at the sound of someone smashing through a window, timber and glass going like a bomb-burst, an almost familiar sound now – from the main house, she guessed at its far end or thereabouts. She’d pulled back into the space between van and wall, then saw a man running – in this direction, from the house – maybe from around that far corner of it. An end window maybe he’d crashed out of. Like a drunk’s or an ape’s shambling run but actually covering the ground quite fast: he’d hit the edge of the grass circle – some sort of kerb – almost gone flying, but recovering, staggering back on course…
Course for this van. Wouldn’t know the exit was blocked, naturally. She thumbed the Beretta’s safety-catch off. Sighting on him, waiting for a kill at close range: Berettas weren’t exactly target pistols. Dark stain on his face – blood from window-glass, she guessed.
He had not been making for the van: coming off the grass patch he swerved to his left, came pounding on in that weird splay-footed way and with his arms gyrating – for balance presumably – and now flung himself at a door in this cottage’s wall: bursting straight in, Rosie only seconds behind him, other boots pounding the yard’s hard surface from the direction of the house, and a shot – rifle-shot, that ricocheted off the stone wall near this door – but she was inside, and – no gestapist. Kitchen table, dresser, coal-stove: then boots crashingly loud on wooden stairs. Straight, steep, narrow stairs from inside what looked like a cupboard, familiar odour from an oil-lamp glowing under a slope of ceiling in the room they led to, and a male scream of, ‘Didn’t think I’d leave you to them, did you?’
Léonie had one wrist chained to the iron bedstead, and the man had a knife in his right hand, by the look of it was reaching with the other to grab her by the hair. She was off the bed though, on its far side. He had blood all over him, from his dive out of that window. Rosie howled, ‘Drop it and stand still!’
Should have shot him there and then: because with the knife, and that close, and his seemingly murderous intention in the first place – unless he’d come not to kill her but to get away with her – but if his intention had been to kill her and he’d moved fast—
He’d whirled to face Rosie.
‘Who the fuck—’
Now – in those few seconds – he looked as if he meant business with the knife. She’d yelled again, ‘Drop it!’ and for another second was ready to let him have it between the eyes – an intention which he’d have read, which held him with mouth open, gasping, chest heaving noisily like bellows, eyes showing a lot of white, face and head actually running with blood from gashes. The knife had fallen: both blood-stained hands lifting, palms towards her, into the path of any bullet as if they might be enough to stop it. Swaying, feet shifting for balance as on a moving deck. She had the pistol aimed at the bridge of his nose, her hand surprisingly steady, torch in the other hand at least partially blinding him, hearing herself ask Léonie – stupid question, when she thought and told about it afterwards, but asking it in English – ‘You all right, Léonie – Yvette?’
‘Do I know you?’ She was pulling back away from him as far as she could get, as the length of her arm and the chain would allow: answering the silly question then with, ‘All bruised – everywhere. Literally everywhere, I’m—’
‘He rape you?’
‘Christ, yes! Lafont gave me to him, said—’
‘Want to kill him yourself, or I do it for you?’
‘You – please, I—’
He was grinning, and shaking his head. Imbecilic. Fear – terror – disbelief – or madness? Didn’t understand English anyway, couldn’t know what was coming – not for certain anyway, but—
‘Where would you shoot him?’
‘Oh’ – pointing, with the unchained hand – ‘first shot—’
‘Yes.’ Downstairs they were crashing in through the kitchen. She knew exactly where to put the first shot. Second and third not far from it in the lower belly where one had always been told it hurt the most. Ears ringing from the whipcrack shots, further deafened by his screaming; he was doubled over, emitting shrieks, now buckling at the knees – hugging himself, on his knees and toppling over sideways just as the first of the gendarmes crashed in. Rosie put the sole of her shoe against the bloody face, pushing him over on to his back: she shot him again but this time in the forehead. Had to find the key then for the padlock on Léonie’s chain. She told the gendarmes – there were two in the room by this time – ‘It was self-defence. He was coming at me with that knife. I fired one shot – as you see.’ Her torch-beam on the bullet-hole in his forehead: ‘That one.’
‘Yes. Beyond dispute.’ They’d both looked, and now exchanged nods and grunts of agreement. Having also seen Yvette, obviously. This one added, ‘It was precisely as you say. But now, you search for—’
‘This.’
The key. He’d had it on a string around his neck and she’d snapped it off, showed it to the gendarme as she went to Léonie. ‘My name’s Rosie. We met in Nancy. Are you going to be able to walk?’
‘His name – Bernin. Victor. Lafont called him Vic. He – Bernin – once threatened to cut off my eyelids.’
‘What a charmer.’
Léonie was hobbling, supporting herself with her hand hooked over Rosie’s shoulder, and with one gendarme hovering close behind, ready to assist but not touching her. Rosie wasn’t touching her either, leaving it to her to find what support she needed – she’d said she didn’t want any arms around her, on account of the all-over bruising. Her face was a patchwork of brown, purple, yellow from it. She was wearing what looked like a man’s nightgown – striped, straight-sided and reaching to the ground – and had said she had no idea what had been done with her clothes. Rosie had told her, ‘We’ll fix you up, don’t worry. We’ll be driving back to Paris now to a flat in Passy. Girl with me, Jacqui Clermont, lives there and has masses of clothes. They’ll be big for you but we’ll fix them well enough for getting back to England. Through here now, Léonie – I mean Yvette. Sorry, keep thinking of you as Léonie.’
‘I don’t mind being Léonie. I still think of Derek as Guillaume.’
They were approaching the gateway in the wall, Rosie pointing: ‘Through there, then it’s only a few yards. One thing I must explain. The man driving this car – it’s his car – is Jacqui’s boyfriend and he’s a major in the SD, but—’
‘SD…’
‘—he’s on our side in this, oddly enough. Jacqui’s been tied up with him for ages, he knows the Resistance would give her short shrift if she was left here on her own now – Allies may already be in Paris, by the way, they were tipped to arrive this evening – anyway, they’d as like as not do her in, so he’s been helping me find you in return for my promise to take her to London with us. She was working for SOE, you see, and she’s entitled, but he doesn’t know that, better not know – OK?’
Movement of split and flattened lips: ‘OK.’
There was a crowd in the farmyard between the parked vehicles and the near end of the house. By torchlight surrounding them she saw half a dozen men in handcuffs and leg-irons, guarded by gendarmes with Schmeissers. That tall one would be Lafont: she wondered whether Jacqui might have spotted him. The van’s doors were open and the other one, which had been moved to block the exit, was growling its way back into the yard at this moment. One of the gendarmes who’d been in the cottage when she’d killed Bernin had trotted over to that large group, reporting to Fernagut she guessed – or maybe to his own patron from Provins. One didn’t know who was who, exactly. There was a smaller, separate group, she saw – three or four women who were also handcuffed – and some children.
Jacqui came running. Clausen was out of the car too, but waiting for them beside it. Léonie asked Rosie, ‘How did you know they’d brought me here?’
‘Well – I wouldn’t have gone into this if you hadn’t asked, but the starting-point was – Guillaume.’
‘Lafont whipped him to death. In front of me. Took days.’
‘I guessed, something like that. I saw the chair and the hook in that cellar.’
‘Why Bernin thought of cutting my eyelids off. To make me watch.’
‘Is this – Yvette?’
‘Yes, Jacqui. Don’t touch her, she’s bruised all over. Yvette – Jacqui.’
‘Hello, Jacqui. We’re going to your apartment and you’ll fix me up with some clothes, Rosie says.’
‘Why, of course—’
‘Jeanne-Marie?’
Fernagut. Rosie called back, ‘With you in a moment.’ Then to Léonie/Yvette, ‘We’ll get you into the car – sandwiches and a Thermos of coffee – real coffee, if—’
‘Brandy too.’ Jacqui asked Rosie, ‘Said anything about Gerhardt?’
‘Yes, I’ve explained.’ She added to Léonie: ‘Gerhardt is Major Clausen. Better call him Gerhardt – easier—’
‘I feel like Alice in Wonderland, but—’
‘Some wonderland.’ Jacqui said, ‘Listen, soon as we get to the flat, I’ll send for a doctor. And if he says hospital—’
‘London’s the place for her, Jacqui. Hospital there, if necessary. Unless the doctor’s adamant she mustn’t travel. Her mother’s in London, and – anyway, Paris hospitals are going to be packed out.’
‘Definitely London, please.’
‘Mam’selle Yvette?’
‘Yes – Gerhardt. They say you helped find me, I’m – grateful.’
‘Charming that you should say so. Now if we use this door – Jacqui, you might get in the other side, help her in from inside, d’you think?’
‘All right, Léonie?’
‘If they don’t pull me, or—’
‘She’s badly hurt, Gerhardt. All-over bruising, especially. Best not to touch her, let her crawl in, give her help if she asks for but – see, I’m not holding her—’
‘Understood.’
‘I want a word with Fernagut. Won’t be two minutes. Yvette would like sandwiches, coffee and Cognac – she’ll tell you in which order.’
Fernagut was telling another gendarme, ‘You take them then, but they remain my prisoners, I’ll arrange to collect them when things have settled down. Keep ’em locked up and incommunicado – and no chances, they’re wild beasts, uh?’
‘All right. The men in my van, and the women and children in yours, Justin. And Justin – have your lads dig a couple of holes for those two before you start off, would you?’
‘Maybe one hole? In that cabbage patch – for easy digging. Hey, Philippe—’
‘Another thing.’ Fernagut again. ‘The two Citroens in that shed, and the small van inside there. D’you have men to drive them?’
‘Oh, sure!’
‘Take all three then, but one Citroen is mine. The best of them – because you get the van as well. Fair do’s? Look after it for me and I’ll take delivery when we collect the prisoners.’
‘As you say, Gabriel – fair do’s.’
Fernagut turned to Rosie. ‘Forget about the man you had to shoot. There was also one against whom I was obliged to defend myself. I’m very glad you have the young lady safe.’
‘You won’t need her evidence, will you? I hope to get her to London within a day or two – she’s been through enough without—’
‘Don’t worry. We’ve enough evidence to hang every one of them fifty times over.’
‘You’re leaving them here for the time being?’
‘They’ll hold them in Provins until we’re ready. With Allied troops maybe in Paris already – God knows, it’ll be chaotic these next few days. I need to get my lot back there right away, in fact. Could set off together, if you like?’
‘Best you go ahead. We have food and drink for her – can’t rush her, she’s amazingly well in control but—’
‘Very well. May I say, the capture of those creatures I owe entirely to you—’
‘You did it, mon Capitain. Congratulations.’
‘There now.’ He’d put a hand on her elbow, turning her, pointing. ‘That’s Lafont, the one embarking. And that small, stocky one – Pierre Bonny. To our shame, once a very senior policeman. That dwarf-like object now – Lafont’s nephew, Paul Clavié. And that’s Engel – exceptionally vicious. He and Clavié will face multiple rape charges, as well as murders. And Montand – Chauvier – well, they’re small-fry, you might say…’
One police van and the other vehicles, the Citroens and the Renault, were leaving, while in the back of Clausen’s car, between Rosie and Jacqui, Yvette munched sandwiches. She’d started with a swig of Clausen’s brandy, and he’d offered her his greatcoat as a rug to cover her, but she hadn’t been able to stand its weight.
Rosie muttered, ‘Those bastards! That one in particular.’
‘Yvette says you killed him.’
‘Instinct to do it there and then. She doesn’t have to think of him still walking around, she knows he’s wiped out.’
‘You think of all that at the time?’
‘No. Just wanted him dead.’
‘Probably a good idea, at that.’ Jacqui asked Yvette, ‘More coffee now?’
‘Oh – if there’s more to spare—’
‘It’s for you.’ Rosie asked Jacqui, ‘What’s for midnight supper when we get back?’
‘What’s left of the chicken casserole – and there’s cheese – and Gerhardt’s wine of course. I’m sure he’ll insist—’
‘You see, we’ve been living in luxury, Yvette.’ Remembering her as she had been in Nancy, as Guillaume Rouquet’s pianist: neat, efficient, self-possessed, coping with all the pianist’s round-the-clock dangers which Rosie herself had known all about; and sympathetic and helpful with Rosie’s own then rather special problems – such as having her portrait on the Nazis’ ‘Wanted’ posters, for instance. Now Jacqui had poured a mug of coffee: Yvette didn’t want saccharine substitute in it. Asking Rosie, ‘How come you were in Paris looking for us in the first place?’
‘I’ll tell you that as we go along. But look here. Your bag – you gave it to me when I was setting off with Guillaume, remember?’
‘Yes, I do—’
‘How about this, then? Hey presto – shoes!’
‘How on earth—’
Clausen said, ‘Truck’s pulling out.’ Fernagut and company. Leaving only the van with the gang’s women and children in it still standing there, its rear doors shut and gendarmes with Schmeissers guarding it while their colleagues finished digging a grave for two in the cabbage patch beside the lane. With her head near the open window Rosie could hear that digging going on. Yvette asking her – again – ‘Where did you find my shoes?’
‘House in Rue de la Pompe.’ She didn’t mention that they’d had them on a mantelpiece as ornaments; it was a fairly creepy notion and neither necessary nor probably desirable to tell her everything. Not at this stage anyway. She hadn’t mentioned the dumping of Guillaume’s body either. Clausen was craning round again: ‘Coffee finished? Ready to go, are we?’
There’d been lightning-like flashes in the night sky over Paris, but none for some time now. Rosie had been telling Yvette about her surprise re-briefing at Fawley Court and the news of her and Guillaume’s capture having emanated from Boemelbourg via a fellow-pederast who for years had been a wheeler-dealer for SOE. She hadn’t mentioned the man’s name – Cazalet – because she didn’t think Clausen knew about him, and the game wasn’t necessarily quite over yet. She finished, ‘It was a long-shot chance but a chance of sorts, so they packed me off.’
‘You mean you offered. Thanks.’ A hand on hers. ‘Many heartfelt thanks.’
She’d have liked to do justice all round by attributing to Jacqui the pinpointing of the farm, but felt sure Jacqui would prefer it if she didn’t.
Clausen was driving fast, and there was very little traffic. They’d passed a place called Rozay-en-Brie, which Jacqui – who had the map and had reclaimed the torch – said was 26 kilometres from Bazoches. Therefore 44 to Paris: say 50 or so to Passy. It was open country on both sides here. Yvette asked, ‘Apart from going to your flat, what’s our programme in Paris as you’d see it?’
Clausen said, ‘I leave the three of you at the apartment, put on a uniform and report to my headquarters in l’Hôtel Continental. At least, endeavour to. If the Americans are in Paris it’s more likely I’ll be made a prisoner-of-war. Meanwhile Jeanne-Marie – or Rosie as you call her – will telephone to a Resistance leader with whom she’s been doing business, and he’ll no doubt make whatever arrangements she requests.’
‘First of all, though’ – Jacqui – ‘I’ll send for a doctor to come and see you, Yvette.’
‘But then to get to England—’
‘The man I’ll telephone, name of Leblanc, will fix it: contact some headquarters unit – Yank, maybe – and they’ll get on to the British command, who’ll buzz SOE in Baker Street, who’ll have us flown out – from Le Bourget, I—’
‘Hold tight!’
Braking. There’d been some kind of explosion – just seconds ago. A bend ahead of them here, fairly sharp, woodland to the right, and… smash-up? Combination of the bend and trees on that side meant one had come on it suddenly: none of the women had been looking out ahead and – shockingly – here it was, up close – a vehicle on its side in flames, and men running – one crawling – black against the brilliance, which now exploded again – a sheet of flame leaping outward – blast driving this way – flame higher than the trees, burning pieces flying… Clausen had stopped the car in a juddering skid that had left it slewed diagonally across the road – Rosie with her arms loosely but protectively round Yvette – whether she’d have wanted it or not, might have been worse off without it. ‘All right, Yvette?’
Clausen said, ‘That’s the truck. Your gendarmes.’
Had been. Was burning wreckage now, a central heap of it, and around that a general scattering. Also grass burning on the verges. Running men had vanished – they’d be part of that litter, she imagined. Reek of petrol. Clausen said, with the driver’s door open – half out of it, shrugging into his greatcoat – ‘Tanks. See? That was a shell from the one to the left, I think. There’s a staff car back there and I imagine they’re escorting it. I’m going to see who and what—’
‘Gerhardt, why—’
‘Because naturally I have to. Calm yourself, chérie.’
One tank – one on the left – was coming on slowly, smoke still drifting from its gun, on the wider verge and around the spill of still smouldering, smoking wreckage. The other was stopped on this other side, further back. Clausen was out in the road, had not only his coat on but also a cap which he’d scooped out from under the front seat: was clearly a major in the Sicherheitsdienst again. He’d pushed the door shut and moved around the front of the Citroen, was starting up the road slanting left to skirt around the nucleus of the wreckage – would also be passing close to that tank, which had now stopped with its gun pointing this way, Rosie noted. The other tank had its gun trained this way too – she thought. Harder to see because of the smoking debris between here and there. She’d thought of climbing over into the driving seat and moving this car into the side in case those Germans wanted to come on through – one wouldn’t want to detain them – but decided maybe better not, better to leave it for Clausen on his return. Fingers crossed that he’d return. At this moment he was passing between that tank and the wreckage of Fernagut’s truck. Poor Fernagut, who would not be making captain. Clausen, at such close quarters with the tank, raising both arms for the duration of a few paces, signalling peaceful intentions – humorously, perhaps. It was beginning to make sense to her, as initial shock wore off: Wehrmacht truck with FFI painted on it, and full of gendarmes, Fernagut maybe not seeing until the last minute the dark-toned camouflage-painted tanks, not having envisaged any such things being on this road – putting his foot down, hoping to get by before they got a close look at that white lettering.
‘He’s at that car.’ Jacqui. ‘Oh, please God…’
‘He’ll be all right.’ Rosie talking to herself and Yvette as well as to Jacqui, speaking half-formed thoughts aloud more than making sense or logic. ‘Talk his way out of it somehow – tell them we’re his prisoners or something.’
Yvette had her eyes shut. Had had plenty to keep them shut against, in recent times. Could only sit, hope, poor little thing, pray this might resolve itself.
Come to that, it was all anyone could do.
Both tanks were at rest, guns trained in this direction, and Clausen was stooped at the rear right-hand window of the staff car. Smoke was thinning from that heap of wreckage although there was still a bit of a glow from it, and one had a clearer view of the staff car now: big saloon, probably camouflage-painted but with lighter patches – rectangles – on its front mudguards. Army or brigade insignia, she supposed.
He was coming back. Picking his way through the litter of it. Had stopped: looking down at the littered roadway to his left.
‘Oh, no…’
He had the Luger in his hand, had half-turned and was aiming downward at – something. Loud crack of the discharge, upward movement of his arm in recoil. A step closer then, peering down – and now leaving it, coming on, circumnavigating the centre of it again. Still with the pistol in his hand, and looking around him quite intently as he came. Yvette still had her eyes shut, wouldn’t have seen that incident, but Jacqui had; it was she who’d murmured that ‘Oh, no’, and her window Clausen came to now. He’d re-pocketed his Luger.
‘Jacqui – take over as driver, please. Or you could, Jeanne-Marie, but I think Jacqui knows Paris better. The way we followed them through, chérie – remember?’
Word them accompanied by a movement of the head and high-fronted Nazi cap towards what had been a truck with eight men in it. Jacqui saying, ‘I remember it well enough, probably. Most of it. But why, what are you—’
‘I have to go with them. A general I never heard of. I told him the story I gave my own people – following up the prisoner who should have come to me, not to Lafont—’
‘So what are you doing with three French girls in your car?’
‘One is that prisoner – who knows nothing, shouldn’t have been arrested in the first place – and you two are SD agents who’ve been working for me, will continue as agents when we leave Paris – to return before long, one hopes – so it’s in SD’s interests that you should—’
‘D’you have to go with them?’
‘Only hope I have of continuing in the service of the Reich. It’s the Free French who are in Paris – French Second Armoured Division, despatched by General Eisenhower to take possession. Advance units broke in via the Porte d’ltalie a few hours ago; the rest of the division will be in at daylight, with Americans then to back them up. Jeanne-Marie – you will take her with you?’
‘Of course. Who did you kill just then?’
‘I’m not sure. It may have been the one who travelled with us – Morice. I put him out of his agony, was all.’
Jacqui had gone round and was getting in behind the wheel. Clausen said, ‘Everything we’ve been telling each other, chérie. Everything. In due course, however long it may be—’
‘However long. Take enormous care?’
‘I’ll get a staff job if I can… But – I’ll guide you through now.’ He pointed: ‘Around that edge of it.’ The general’s horn had blared. Clausen said quickly, ‘Be very careful yourselves. Paris will have gone mad. There’ll be small-scale battles all over, I expect. Tank battles and—’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll make it.’
‘Start up, then?’
‘Yes.’ Fumbling for the starter. ‘If I remember how…’
But no problems. She got the car moving, dragging the wheel hard over then, and Clausen starting back that way – over to the left-hand side, clear of the strewn wreckage. It wouldn’t have been the best time to get a puncture. They were going to pass very close to the tank that had done the shooting; and its gun stayed on them as they approached, that turret inching round – until Clausen waved at it angrily and it stopped. Tank commander’s little joke? The other tank was in clear sight then: on the move, forging clatteringly ahead with one track on the narrow verge where trees encroached and the other crushing some more of the truck’s remains – perhaps bodies too. There’d be other traffic ploughing through or into that mess before long, Rosie thought, these sods weren’t going to do anything about it. She had a clear view of the staff car now – it had moved, shifted from the middle of the road to the right-hand side. Clausen touching his hat to the general, then stopping beside the big car’s rear left mudguard, turning to wave Jacqui over to the other side where she ought to be now, having got by the various obstructions. He might, Rosie thought, having his back to the general, have stooped to Jacqui’s open window, blown her a kiss, called Au revoir – or even Auf Wiedersehen – but he wasn’t risking any such thing, was drawn up stiffly at attention, saluting.
Then – gone, lost astern, as Jacqui straightened the car and began to pick up speed.