TWENTY-FIVE

The glorious day made one final act of defiance as it passed into night. A rich sunset bathed the city in an orange glow, bringing warmth to grey slate and indifferent sandstone. This same light filtered through stained glass and narrow windows, breaking up the darkness of the Church of Saint-Lambert de Vaugirard. The faint smell of incense still hung in the air, while the flames of a few prayer candles lingered, burnt down to the sand in the tray beneath a statue of the Virgin.

Duchene had underestimated his daughter. Even now, her eyes were set on the other side of the church, probably scanning for the door to its lower levels. He was starting to fear her in some way – that she had so quickly recalled that Duchene had visited this place and built a story out of it suggested a sophisticated cunning. With a gun to her face, she’d managed to buy them another hour. She’d found moves still to make when all he could see was their inevitable failure.

The spirit of youth. The young never believe in their mortality, more so when it’s presented clearly to them.

‘The Catacombs,’ said Faber. ‘Where are they?’

‘Downstairs,’ Duchene replied. ‘We’ll need the key from the office.’

Marienne nodded slowly to him. Was the crypt where she hoped he would act? Perhaps she planned that in the darkness they’d escape – throw a lantern to the ground and run. But that would be rash. Faber’s submachine gun fired so quickly that its barrel burnt, and its magazine contained thirty-two opportunities to kill. He held it at their backs, his finger on the trigger.

They walked across the church and reached the narrow door to the stairwell. To Duchene’s relief, it was open, and he led them down to Father Ramelle’s office. The narrow windows left more in shadow than light. There was no more whisky in the cupboard; an empty bottle lay in a wastepaper basket beside the oak desk.

He reached the desk drawer and scanned the room for something to break its lock. The letter opener would snap – what he needed was a crowbar or an axe.

‘Why are we waiting?’ asked Faber.

‘It’s –’ Duchene said, pulling at the drawer. To his surprise, it opened. He reached under its lip and took out the heavy iron key. ‘We’re also going to need a light. I think there’s a lantern around the corner.’

He had his torch, but he was looking for openings; a smashed oil lamp would be desperate, but a chance he might have to take to save their lives.

Faber nodded and jabbed the gun at Marienne. ‘Then let’s go.’

Duchene felt around the top of the cellar stairs that led down into darkness. The back of his hand brushed against glass, and he soon had hold of the oil lamp Madame Noirot had used. It took a few moments for the wick to catch from his lighter. He increased its length, and soon the lamp pushed back the darkness around them. Picking it up, he was surprised by its weight – not as heavy as he’d imagined, but perhaps it was running low on oil.

How quickly would it catch if he threw it at Faber? The glass cover would shatter, but the rest of it was metal, and its makers would have taken precautions against breakage. It all seemed unlikely.

He was back to the idea of plunging them into darkness. Not a good one, he realised as he saw the old wood and bric-a-brac stored at the edges of the cellar. Too easy to trip, to make a noise; too hard to find their way back to the stairs.

He nodded towards the door at the far end of the room. ‘This way.’

Faber remained behind them both, gun still trained on their backs. ‘Open it.’

Duchene walked over with Marienne close beside him. Her summer dress offered little protection against the cold under the church, and goose bumps had risen across her skin. ‘Do you want my coat?’ he asked her.

‘No talking, just open the door,’ Faber barked.

Perhaps the Catacombs were the answer. Could he lose Faber in the maze below Paris? If he held the distance, they might have a chance.

When Duchene turned the key in the lock, he felt no resistance. It wasn’t locked. He glanced at Marienne, but she was already pushing hard against the door. He joined her, and the door started to move, scraping across the grit and bone that had collected in the chamber beyond.

It didn’t take long before they were standing at the threshold to the crypt. Marienne’s eyes were wide as she stared across the wall of tombs. The vein in her neck pulsed – her heart was racing.

‘Are you all right?’ Duchene asked.

Faber moved up behind him and put a boot in his back. ‘I said, no talking.’

Duchene stumbled forward, gripping the lamp hard as his right knee hit the ground. He slapped down his left hand to break the fall, and the sting from the cold stone floor shot through his palm.

Marienne was beside him within seconds. Before he could stand, she was pulling him further into the room, leaning her whole weight back against him while her legs scrambled to move him at speed. Without time to stand properly, he found himself stumbling to the floor as he struggled to keep the lamp from falling.

Faber rushed into the room, the submachine gun raised. ‘Get up!’

As Duchene turned, he saw why they had come here. His eyes flicked to Marienne, her face set in defiance, then back to Faber as the German realised a few seconds too late what Duchene and Marienne saw.

They were not alone.

As Faber turned, trying to train his weapon on the threat, a shot filled the crypt with a noise like thunder.

Faber’s legs buckled from under him, and Marienne rushed from Duchene’s side. She was on the German while he blinked, seeming to struggle to make sense of the four men who had appeared from the darkness. He gripped the weapon in his right hand, but his left felt for the dark stain over his thigh. Marienne screamed as she grabbed the submachine gun, wrenching it from his hand.

Philippe walked forward and reached out to her. ‘Marienne,’ he said, as she held the gun to the ground. ‘You’ve done an amazing job. The gun.’

She placed it into his hands.

Duchene closed his eyes. She couldn’t have known.

Armand, his right arm wrapped in a bandage, strode forward and put a pistol to Duchene’s head.

‘Wait!’ Marienne shouted. ‘What are you doing?’

Philippe flicked a torch into light and sighed. ‘You traded a German major for your lives. But I didn’t have the complete picture – I didn’t know your father had tried to get Armand and Casin killed by Nazis. That’s more than collaboration, that’s treason.’

The stain on Faber’s trousers was growing. The colour was draining from his skin. ‘What have you done?’ he asked.

‘Get him up on his knees,’ Philippe said.

Casin dragged Faber beside Duchene. He pulled back the slide on his pistol.

‘Please, don’t do this.’ Marienne’s face was flushed, and tears were welling in her eyes.

Jean started to walk towards her. He held his hands up, still offering her choices but making the correct one very clear.

Philippe closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘There’s no other way, Marienne. I’m sorry.’

‘Betrayal by a woman,’ Faber said, as Casin put the pistol to the back of his head. ‘It’s so obvious. So inevitable.’

‘Then maybe you should have been smarter,’ Armand hissed.

Faber stared back at the maquisard. His face now white, the dark rings under his eyes seeming to darken by the second. ‘I’m not talking about me, you cur. How do you think my tanks knew where you had gone? Which house you were in?’

Armand blinked, unsure.

‘Let’s make this quick,’ said Philippe. ‘Lingering is heartless.’

Faber’s face twisted with rage. Duchene felt numb.

He tried to watch them all at once. It was as much as he could do to focus on the gun at his head, Armand’s savage grin, Philippe reconciling himself to the role of executioner, Faber starting to chuckle beside him, the crypt, the smell of decay so close to the dead, Marienne fighting Jean’s arms wrapped so tight around her, Marienne alive to the end, not like the bodies in the crypt around him.

The smell of decay.

Duchene threw up his hand. ‘I know where the guns are –’

The thunderclap of a shot was followed by the lightning flash of a muzzle.

Duchene shut his eyes.

And opened them.

Faber’s left eye was hanging out of its socket where the bullet had passed through his head. He lay in dust that was mingling with blood.

Duchene turned his head to one side and dry heaved. In this moment of retching and breathing, he was beginning to realise he was still alive.

Philippe’s hand was wrapped around Armand’s wrist, pointing the pistol into the air as he stared down at Duchene. ‘Five seconds, then the bullet resumes its journey.’

‘The guns. If I tell you –’

‘You live, yes.’

‘This is bullshit,’ Armand shouted.

‘Go. Where are they?’

‘They never left this crypt,’ said Duchene.

Philippe stared at him.

He scrambled to his feet. ‘They’re here – they’re still here.’ He started pressing his face against the capstones that secured the tombs in the walls around them. He was sucking air through his nose, trying to ignore the smell of blood rising from Faber’s body. ‘They’re with the priest. Can’t you smell it?’

Armand sneered. ‘Smell what?’

‘Death.’

‘We’re in a crypt.’

‘Bones don’t smell. Rotting corpses do. There’s a body in the walls. I smelt it last time I was here but didn’t realise, thought it was dead rats. If they couldn’t move the body, how could they have moved the six crates? I think Lucien and Kloke only sold a few of the weapons – what they could carry out of here in their hands.’ Duchene inhaled at the edge of a capstone, and the reek of the dead filled his nasal passages. He staggered back, pointing to the tomb. ‘There.’

Philippe shone his torch at the wall. ‘Jean, Casin.’

The Resistance fighters rushed forward and worked their fingers around the edge of the capstone, straining and pulling. Casin took out a knife and used it to loosen the stone, millimetre by millimetre. Then Jean put a leg against the wall, almost pushing his entire body at a right angle to the stone. With a crash, it fell to the ground, and the smell of death flooded the room.

What remained of Father Ramelle was lying on a large supply crate.