Into the Iron Shadows, page 32
“Thank you,” Finn murmured, taken aback at the man’s outgoing greeting.
“What would you like, sir? Café? Croissant? Perhaps a plate of financiers and macaroons?”
Finn looked at Evelyn and she almost laughed out at the startled look in his eyes.
“Bonjour!” she said, taking pity on the uncomfortable Czech. “All of that sounds wonderful. We will have two coffees, certainly, and if we could have a moment to decide?”
“Of course, mademoiselle! Take all the time you need.”
“Thank you.” Evelyn gave him her most winning smile. “I wonder if Leon is here? We were told to look for him while we were in Bordeaux.”
“You’ve found him, mademoiselle. I am Leon.”
“Oh how wonderful! A dear friend of mine in Paris, William, told me that I really must search out Café Rosa while I was here. He said that you make the best cannelés in the city.”
Leon nodded, his wide smile never faltering. “William is too kind, but he is also correct. You won’t find any better. I will bring them to you with your coffee.”
Evelyn smiled and she and Finn turned to survey the café. Only two tables were occupied at this time of the morning and, as they turned, the occupants of both quickly lowered their gazes. Finn led her to a table on the opposite side, tucked near the back.
Evelyn sank into a seat while he settled himself facing the door. She looked at his face and smiled.
“They’re locals,” she said in a low voice. “Relax. There is no need to be so suspicious.”
“They were watching and listening to every word that was said,” he replied in an equally low voice.
“Yes. They probably come here every day and are curious.” Evelyn opened her purse and pulled out a small compact, opening it to examine her appearance. “This is not Leipzig. It is France.” She patted her hair, tucking a stray strand back into the twist at the back of her head. “There are no Gestapo spies in Bordeaux. At least, not yet.”
Finn grunted and shifted in his seat. “I am still not comfortable.”
“I know.” She adjusted her hat and closed her compact, putting it away. She smiled at him. “That is why you have me to help you.”
“Here they are,” Leon sang out, heading towards their table with a tray in his hands. “The best cannelés in Bordeaux.”
He expertly balanced the tray with one hand and set a plate in front of each of them.
“When you leave, go around to the back,” he said in a low voice while he set their cups of coffee down. “I will speak to you then.”
“Thank you.” Evelyn nodded. “They look delicious,” she added in a slightly louder voice.
“Enjoy, mademoiselle. Monsieur.” Leon bowed slightly and turned to go back to the counter.
Finn watched him go, then turned his attention to the small, round cake on the plate.
“What is this?”
“It is a specialty of Bordeaux, made with vanilla and rum, and it’s very good.” Evelyn picked up the small fork on her plate and cut into the pastry. “I had it once a long time ago when—” She stopped herself abruptly. “Well, a long time ago.”
Finn picked up his fork. “I don’t care very much for sweets, but it must be better than cold potatoes,” he murmured. “I am glad you stopped yourself,” he added, glancing up from his plate. “The less we know of each other, the better.”
Evelyn nodded, chewing thoughtfully. He was right, but it was still strange to be forced to censor herself. After all, they’d lived through a Stuka attack together, and he’d confided his past and his journey to her. It seemed as though they had known each other much longer than the week that they had. They had spent days in the car together, discussing inane topics along the way, and they were still strangers. It was a strange existence, this life of theirs.
And she could only imagine that it would get stranger as the war went on.
Miles moved forward with the line of soldiers standing two abreast, walking towards the pier that stretched out over the surf to the waiting gray destroyer. They had loaded the wounded first, and now the line was moving slowly, but steadily, as men boarded the ship. He hadn’t even reached the pier yet and, judging by the number of soldiers before him, he didn’t think he would reach the ship before it had reached capacity. He looked at his watch tiredly. It was after midday and the sun was high in the sky, beating down on them without mercy. Perfect weather for the Luftwaffe to inflict their damage. Their fighters would be having a heyday with theirs up there, using the sun to full advantage. He knew that, beyond the town and where he couldn’t see them, the RAF was battling just as hard as the soldiers down here. Shaking his head, he swallowed painfully. His mouth and throat were dry, he was hot and tired, and yet he wanted nothing more than to be up in his Spitfire with them. But his kite was a charred out shell now, and he was standing here instead, wishing he had a canteen of water. He was so thirsty!
“‘ere mate, have you got a light?”
Miles turned to look at a soldier holding a crooked cigarette behind him. He nodded and felt in his uniform pocket for his lighter. Locating it, he pulled it out and handed it to the man.
“Cheers.” He lit his cigarette and handed the lighter back to him. “I lost mine somewhere.”
Miles nodded, tucking the lighter back into his pocket. The man stared at him for a minute, smoking.
“How did you get ‘ere then?” he finally asked.
“Courtesy of a Messerschmitt 109.”
The man nodded slowly. “Where did you run into the bastard?”
Miles pointed up and the man choked. “Up there? Here up there?”
“That’s right.”
“So you blokes are around after all,” he said, shaking his head. “A bunch of the lads said the RAF wasn’t here.”
“Oh, we’re here,” Miles said, his voice hoarse. “We’re up there.”
“We haven’t seen any of you from down ‘ere. All we see are the bloody Germans, right before they drop their bombs and start shooting.”
“We’re above the clouds. Trust me. We’re there.”
The man studied him for a minute, his crooked cigarette hanging out of his mouth, then he shoved his hand out.
“Private Bernard Taylor, 91st Field Regiment.”
“Flying Officer Miles Lacey, 66 Squadron.”
“What’s your machine? Hurricane?”
“Spitfire.”
Bernard’s face brightened. “Spitfire! Bloody brilliant, they are! I saw one fly outside London once.”
Miles couldn’t stop his smile. “Yes. They’re fantastic kites.”
“Where did you come down?”
“Just over the border, in Belgium, early this morning.”
Bernard clucked his tongue and shook his head. “And you made it here? You must have someone watching over you. I came from Ploegsteert, and it was hell getting out of there. Lost m’ captain and my lance corporal before we made it from one side o’ the street to the other. Ended up adrift with two others, separated from my unit.”
Miles made a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat, not having any idea where the place was that Bernard was talking about. He was about to ask if he’d eventually found the rest of his regiment when a low noise caught his attention. It was a low drone, growing louder, and he looked up, lifting a hand to shade his eyes against the sun. He sucked in his breath when he saw the shadows coming towards them. He recognized the shape immediately and lowered his hand.
“Stukas!” he breathed hoarsely.
“What’s that?” Bernard leaned forward. “You know, I can barely understand you. Something’s wrong with your throat.”
The low drone turned into a high pitched wail.
“Stukas!!” Miles yelled, his voice booming out in his panic. “Everybody down!!”
Bernard gaped at him, then turned to stare as the first ones dove towards the beach. Miles grabbed him, throwing him to the sand and following him down. All around them, soldiers dove to the ground, covering their ears against the ghastly wail of the dive bombers as they streaked towards the beach. Miles lifted his head, watching as column by column, the soldiers exposed on the beach fell to the sand in a desperate and hopeless attempt to save themselves from the deadly fighter bombers.
The deafening sound of the first bomb exploding forced Miles’ head down and he lay there in the sand, his heart pounding in his chest. Pure, unadulterated terror streaked through him as he listened to the MG 17 machine guns fire rounds over him. He turned his head and watched sand fly in the air a mere foot away as the bullets thudded into the beach. He watched long enough to see the perfect rows streak along the ground, hitting soldiers stretched out in their path. Miles squeezed his eyes shut, but not before seeing several men jerk uncontrollably as the bullets tore through them.
The high pitched wailing seemed to go on forever, heralding the arrival of more and more Stukas, followed by the explosions of bombs and ungodly sound of gun fire, until suddenly it stopped as the last ones flew over the beach, unloading their 7.92 caliber ammunition as they went. The whole thing, while seeming like an eternity, was over within minutes.
Miles lay prone in the sand, not daring to move for fear of what he’d find when he did. The last of the Stukas were flying off into the distance, their mission finished, before he finally lifted his head slowly, taking mental stock of his body. Nothing hurt any more than anything else, and the only real discomfort was emanating from his shoulder, which had been violently jarred when he threw his arm around Bernard to get him down.
Miles pushed himself up, turning to look at Private Taylor. He was still lying face down in the sand, not moving.
“Private Taylor!” Miles leaned over to touch his shoulder, his hand shaking. “Are you all right? Bernard!”
A groan came from the prone figure and he rolled over, staring up at Miles with a grimace.
“Are the shits gone?”
Miles stared at him for a beat, then laughed, his body going limp with relief. “Yes. They’re gone.”
“Bloody bastards.”
He struggled to sit up, then fell back again. Miles got to his knees, leaning over him.
“What is it? Are you hit?”
“It’s my back. I took some shrapnel a few days ago. It gets stiff on me.” Bernard tried again and Miles hooked his arm around him, helping him up. After a moment of struggle, he managed to get to his feet, panting. “It’ll be awright now. Doc said the muscles wouldn’t work right for a while. When we get back home, I expect they’ll do something about it.”
“You gave me a scare,” Miles said, releasing him. “I thought you’d bought it.”
They turned and looked out over the beach. As soldiers struggled to their feet again, the amount that remained unmoving on the sand became clear. Miles sucked in his breath, staring over the expansive coastline. Hundreds of slain soldiers littered the beach, strewn at angles around the deep craters left by the bombs. In the long columns snaking into the water, dozens more were floating with the tide, unmoving. It wasn’t enough for the Stukas to have dropped their bombs, but they’d also used their guns to mow down as many as they could. Shouts for medics and stretchers echoed all along the beach as men rushed to try to help the ones who were wounded and still breathing.
“Bastards,” he breathed in horror.
“Do me a favor, mate,” Bernard said, staring at all the bodies. “Remember what happened ‘ere today. When you get back in your Spitfire, you take as many of those shits out as you possibly can. Send ‘em to ‘ell where they belong.”
“Private Taylor, it will be my absolute pleasure.”
The tiny courtyard behind the café was paved with old cobblestones and surrounded by a stone wall with a wooden gate for access. Closing the gate behind them, Evelyn and Finn walked across the small space towards the back door of the café. As they approached, it swung open and Leon stood in the opening, watching them.
“Come inside,” he said, standing aside and motioning them forward. “We will go upstairs to my apartment where we can talk.”
Evelyn stepped into a bright kitchen, lined on one side with long wooden counters. Two ovens stood on another wall, along with a large, strange contraption that looked rather like a vat. Leon closed the door behind them and ushered them to the right, moving them quickly out of the kitchen and along a short, narrow corridor to a flight of stairs.
“I’ve been expecting you for a week,” he said over his shoulder as he led them up the steps. “Did you run into trouble?”
“We ran into refugees,” Evelyn replied dryly. “The roads are clogged everywhere.”
“Ah. Of course! I should have realized. The newspapers have been saying that Paris is emptying. Everyone is trying to escape the Nazis.” Leon opened a door at the top of the stairs and led them into a comfortably furnished sitting room. “Welcome to my home. It isn’t very much, but it’s comfortable. Please sit.”
He waved them towards the short couch and turned to walk over to the window, pulling the curtains aside to let in the sunlight. Turning, he clasped his hands together and studied them.
“You look exhausted,” he announced, “but you are here now. Let me properly introduce myself. I am Leon Petron. You are Oscar and Jian, no?”
“Yes.” Evelyn glanced at Finn. “At least, I am Jian.”
“I am Oscar,” he said with a nod.
“Good! Then we can begin.” Leon went over to a tall wooden armoire and opened the door. He pulled out a square case and carried it over to a table, setting it down. “I will contact London and tell them you have arrived.”
“Is there somewhere I can wash my face and hands?” Evelyn asked, watching as he opened the case to reveal a wireless radio. It was the same model that she had had a crash course on before leaving for Belgium. “You trained in London?” she asked, surprised.
He looked up with a twinkle in his eyes. “But yes! What did you think? That SIS sent me a manual?”
She got up and went over to look at the radio unit. “SIS? How long have you worked for them?”
“Since before war was declared,” he said, pulling out a chair and sitting down before the radio. “I know the name is now MI6, but I prefer the old one.”
Evelyn smiled. “Many do.”
“If you go down the hallway there, the bathroom is on your left,” he said, pointing to the short hallway on the other side of the room.
“Thank you.”
She turned and went across the room, picking up her purse as she passed the couch. She smiled at Finn, then continued to the hallway. A few minutes later she was rinsing her hands and face in a small basin sink. Raising her face to look in the mirror, she saw the dark rings under her eyes and the strained look around her mouth. She was tired, and the long days in Belgium and France were taking their toll.
Pressing her lips together, she dried her face and opened her purse to pull out her lipstick, wondering if Josephine had found somewhere to stay. She had left her with enough money to keep her going for a few weeks, ignoring her repeated protests that it was far too much. It would have ensured that she could find a good, clean hotel to sleep and regroup. Evelyn’s lips twisted wryly. What she wouldn’t give for a nice bed in a hotel room right now!
She capped her lipstick and put it back in the purse, staring at herself in the mirror.
What are you doing, Evie?
Why was she here, in Bordeaux, in a small apartment over a café? Who was she trying to pretend to be? Finn had worked for the SS. He had started an underground movement in Holland, and had built upon it in Belgium. He had lived under Nazi occupation, had traveled with Nazi commanders, and knew everything there was to know about this world. He was an agent.
She felt like a tourist.
Evelyn exhaled and turned towards the door. Except she wasn’t a tourist. She had documents in her suitcase that had been smuggled out of Germany, and drawings of some kind of motor that her father had thought was important enough to hide in a bank in Zürich. Finn’s abilities lay in organizing and setting up a network of resistance against the Nazis. Hers lay in gathering the information that would help defeat them.
She knew what Bill would say if he were in front of her; he would say that one wasn’t better than the other. That they both had an important part to play. But as Evelyn opened the door and went back down the hallway to the little sitting room, she didn’t feel like an equal. She felt extremely unqualified to be the one responsible for escorting Finn to England. In fact, she felt extremely unqualified to be doing any of the things she’d been doing for the past month.
How on earth was she going to make it through the war?
Chapter Thirty
Eisenjager opened the door to the café and walked in, his dark eyes sweeping over the interior dispassionately. A few tables were occupied, mainly with women having their mid-morning coffee before returning to their daily errands. A young man stood behind the counter in an apron and, as Eisenjager approached, he looked up from the cup he was polishing and nodded.
“Good morning,” he said, setting the cup down.
“Good morning.” Eisenjager looked at the array of pastries available for a moment. “One coffee, and perhaps a macaroon.”
“Of course. If you’d have a seat, I will bring it to you.”
Eisenjager nodded and turned to walk to the table in front of the windows facing the corner. Seating himself, he looked outside. He had a panoramic view of the corner and intersection. When the Englishwoman and the man left, he would see them.
He had watched them enter the café, then had waited across the street on a bench with a newspaper until they left. Instead of continuing on their way, they went around the corner and into the back courtyard of the building. They were obviously meeting someone there, but he had no way of knowing who. The gate had been closed behind them and when he tried to open it a few minutes later, he found it locked. It made no difference. He knew where they were, and he would follow them when they left again.
Last night, when they had stopped for the night, he had contacted Hamburg to alert them to the fact that they were moving towards Bordeaux. He gave his opinion that Jian would be leaving France by way of the Garonne River to the sea beyond. It was what he would do if he were her. She had come south for a reason, and had gone straight to a port city. The fighting hadn’t reached this far south yet, and with the German armies concentrated on Dunkirk and the surrounding ports in the north, this was her safest bet for getting back to England. They had cut off every other avenue.
