Beyond Revanche, page 27
The airmen nodded in unison, accepting the compliment with good grace. Mathieu cast his eye on the remains of the stew. Where had he seen this man? Think.
“General Guillaumat asks that you return to Headquarters. He expected a report from you earlier this evening, I understand. I have a car outside.”
“Thank you, we will follow shortly.” Pierre caught Mathieu’s puzzled pose and waited for the emissary to leave. “What’s troubling you?”
“Two points. The general did not want a report this evening. We agreed that nothing would be recorded on paper.”
“True.”
“And that officer,” Mathieu gestured towards the door, “I’ve seen him before. In Paris. He was present at a meeting in the suburbs. The one which included Zaharoff. Is he not Joffre’s aide de camp?”
“No, he’s not. I’ll tell you who he is…Levy’s grandson. Levy of the Comité des Forges. He’s a liaison officer on some committee or other attached to Papa Joffre’s command. He belongs to the Comité des Forges. He is one of them. Not Papa Joffre’s.”
Relief shot down Mathieu’s assumption. “Thank God for that,” he said to himself, but there was no time to discuss the issue further. He rose from the table abandoning the succulent stew,
“We need to get out of here, now. These are the thugs Messimy warned us about.”
Paul Dumer was already on his feet. He left a handful of coins on the table and shouted,
“Claire, we have to go immediately. Emergency.”
A buxom young woman appeared from the kitchen. He kissed her cheek and put both hands on her shoulders.
“Ma Cherie, we need you to buy us time. Those men outside. Do what you can to distract them. We’ll go out the back door.”
Mathieu glanced out the front window, careful to avoid being seen. Merde. A charabanc was sitting on the far side of the road. Standing with his back to the auberge, Zaharoff’s manservant listened attentively to the Levy messenger. There were at least six men waiting in total. Not a subtle murder squad.
Behind the inn lay a small wood which in summer might have offered better cover, but night had crept in while they celebrated, and darkness became an instant ally. They ran, but not blindly. Pierre led them across an open field and through a further thicket. Lights from a farmhouse guided them towards a hidden stream. Once over that hurdle they zigzagged across a withered vineyard and sat for a moment beside a family vault which stood at its center, camouflaged by receding vines. The consequence of rich earthy wine and thick rabbit stew weighed heavy on their stomachs.
“Bloody hell,” Paul wheezed, stroking the terminally damaged fruit with immense delicacy. “These were pinot grapes. What a tragedy. South facing, too. This bloody war.”
High cloud covered the moon with a distant fog which was a blessing when they reached the outskirts of Lemmes. The charabanc had stopped near the gates to the aerodrome, its lights dimmed. From a distance it appeared that the driver and occupants were in detailed conversation with the guards, but experience warned Mathieu that what they thought they saw, might be otherwise. He crouched in the ditch and was about to warn the others to keep low when the night exploded in raw violence.
“There’s the bastard.”
It was Timon, raging like a wounded hog. Revenge was all-consuming. There in the ditch was the cop whom he blamed for all the misery and pain he had suffered for the last three years. Zaharoff’s bodyguard lashed out with his right foot, his target caught in the ditch. Mathieu parried the blow and tried to drag his assailant down from the grass verge. Pierre shouted for help towards the distant airfield, but no one heard. They were outnumbered, but riled by the unexpected attack, fought where they stood. Paul took his revolver in hand but his shot flew high and wide as he was tackled from behind. Pierre had reached the road before Timon emerged and the more even surface allowed him greater purchase. A right hand punch followed quickly by a jab from his left downed one of the assailants. Boxing lessons at his private school proved their worth. Mathieu had eyes only for the man who would be his nemesis.
The sturdy Greek lunged forwarded again, but slipped into the ditch. His greater weight cut through thin ice and rooted his front foot in cold slime which sucked him deeper into the mire. Blinded by anger he denied the logic of nature and thrust his rear leg down to free himself. The ditch began to collapse inwards. Mud spluttered up in protest, holding him fast, better than any vice. His profanities bore witness to his frustration. So close to Mathieu yet not within reach. Two of the attackers broke away to help Timon free himself, allowing the others time to regroup.
“Boches! Boches!”
It was a female cry, so surprising that heads were turned. The charabanc had reversed down the road at full throttle, swerving perilously close to the ditch. Two of the assailants leaped aside. The onrushing motor car thundered to a halt. Claire from the auberge stood at the wheel like a modern-day Joan of Arc, rallying her troops onwards. Unfortunately the strain of such unusual mechanical exertion killed the engine. Paul grabbed her hand and pulled Claire out of the stranded vehicle.
“Move.” He raised his revolver to remind everyone he was armed. “Run,” he urged.
Pierre had pulled Mathieu from the ditch and all five moved as fast as they could in the direction of the aerodrome. Ahead, two guards ran towards them, rifles in hand, confused by the commotion. Behind, the charabanc coughed back into life.
“Behind us,” Pierre screamed at the guards as they closed in on the airmen and pointed down the road.
“What…?”
“No time. Explain later. You know who we are, surely.” The first soldier saluted instinctively. It was time wasted. Further along the road they could hear the charabanc retreat. Its lights had been switched off but it was impossible to hide the engine’s gruff whine as it disappeared in the direction of Souilly.
They were met at the gates by General Guillaumat’s aide. Claire was not permitted entry, being both a local and a woman. Though her bravery in trying to delay the Forge’s men by taking them wine, her refusal to give any information, and being bundled into the charabanc had bought valuables minutes, not to mention her intervention in the middle of the fracas, the best that Paul could organise was for one of his friends in the squadron to escort her back to the auberge. It was just as well, for the conversation with the general was highly sensitive. Once in the basement he dismissed his accustomed entourage and stood blocking the door.
“Firstly, congratulations. I don’t think you caused too much damage, but we have certainly upset people in high places.”
Mathieu noted the pronoun.
“I understand that the Forge’s men, we have to believe that in the end that is who they are, got to you after the attack. Now do you appreciate how well connected and informed these people are? Imagine if we had waited. As it is, they will be furious at their failure. And,” his face betrayed his own annoyance, “I have been given an official reprimand and ordered not to repeat the infraction, I think they called it.”
“Ordered by whom, General?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
“Whoever it is…there will be a day of reckoning, I promise you that.” Brave words from Pierre, but Mathieu believed him. As Depute Flandin in the National Assembly, Pierre would be in a position to raise hell, once the war was won. When that would be, remained to be seen.
General Guillaumat continued, “Ordered directly by General Headquarters at Chantilly. Our mutual friend and colleague tells me that Joffre has been replaced by the rising star that is our new commander-in-chief, Robert Nivelle. So we cannot blame Joffre for this. Indeed, General Messimy believes that once Papa Joffre works out that he has been totally sidelined, he will resign. Our president must be involved. He is the man connected to the armaments clique. Zaharoff is his personal associate. There are hints that the Americans are also behind the decision. American Trusts apparently own large shares in the French and German arms production. Whenever the Americans are cited, everyone bows the knee to the new world order. Mark my words. Until they decide to enter the war, Briey is safe from us.”
Mathieu nodded. It was precisely as he and Bernard Roux surmised.
“But you have shown that the Briey furnaces can be destroyed. They know it can. That’s why we’ve made them nervous.”
General Guillaumat moved from the door, as ill at ease as everyone else. “We have to get the Lieutenant out of here. He is probably the most vulnerable target for these thugs. They have spies everywhere. Do you imagine your attackers chanced on the Auberge? You’ll stay here under guard tonight. Tomorrow you have to go your own ways. I will personally apologize and give the impression that you have been dispersed to other units. We need them to believe that this will never happen again.”
“A final glass of the best Pinot in the land to cement our small but hopefully significant victory today.” Pierre withdrew a bottle from his satchel and found four usable glasses in the officers’ mess. Since they had no idea who was trustworthy, they sat together in the corner under a picture of President Poincaré and the Czar of Russia. Paul René turned it to face the wall. He trusted neither. They might be listening. On further inspection, Pierre and Paul recognized an old companion seated on the other side of the mess, and excused themselves.
“It’s Felix…look, he’s back on his feet.” Both strode across to greet an injured friend, delighted to find him back in uniform.
“How did you get mixed up with these two renegades?” Mathieu asked Marcel, his pilot for the day.
“Trained with the same escadrille earlier in the year. These boys are good flyers, believe me.” He paused, looked deep into his untouched wine and said, “You’ve worked it out, haven’t you?”
It would have been churlish to deny the fact. “Yes, I think so. You’re related to Raoul in some way? A cousin?”
Marcel Villain exhaled deeply and bent his head. “Brother.”
“Brother!” Mathieu was astounded. “Of course, his brother.” He saw the shame in his new friend’s face and tried to comfort him. “That’s hardly your fault. We cannot choose our family. They are what they are. Friends, on the other hand, are the people we want to be with. Raoul Villain is not your fault.”
“I know, I know, but I carry his guilt with me every day. The more you say it’s not my fault, the more I think it must be.” He sipped the wine, distaste overpowering his senses as if it had turned to red vinegar.
“It has ruined my father. Stripped him of the dignity of his senior years. Sometimes it’s too much to live with. When I’m up there in the sky, I don’t care for myself. If I get killed, what does it matter? Hundreds of thousands of better men are already dead. Probably gives me an edge, when you think about it.”
Mathieu was disarmed by the revelation. “I was the one who arrested Raoul that night.”
“You? You arrested him. Honestly, you?”
“Me.”
Trapped by the coincidence, both men had to make a decision. They were not friends. They were definitely not family, yet fate had thrown them together. They lived in a blink of time where chance might pass in an instant. In the vagary of war, the word “later” was itself a risk.
“What was he like, you know, as a brother?”
“A leech. He hung around. Needy. He didn’t understand the codes we lived by. Boys don’t tell tales about other boys. He did. He never grasped that every time he dropped someone in the merde, he was making himself more of an outcast. When they took our mother away to hospital he withdrew into himself, at least socially. He was clever at school. Grasped ideas quickly, but then never saw anything, anything at all, through to a logical conclusion. He would start down one path, appear to have reached his goal, have success at his fingertips…and then change course. Rudderless, that’s a good word. I thought at one stage he was going to be a priest, and it would have had to be a Jesuit, but religion wasn’t enough. Nothing was ever enough.” He drank again, emptying his glass and pulling the bottles towards a refill. “We weren’t close. Ever.”
Hearing the pain in his voice, Marcel wanted to accept that as fact rather than an excuse. “When did he get involved in politics?”
Mathieu Villain gestured helplessly. “Who knows. I heard him talking at our grandmother’s funeral about the enemies within who were a threat to France, but hey, that’s what he did. He flirted with so many ideas, so many new enthusiasms. He was troubled, of that I am sure, but we thought ‘that’s how he is.’ It was like he never grew up.”
“Do you think that he was on his own when he killed Jaurès? Can you imagine him shooting a man at point blank range? Do you think it was just his next idea?”
“No.”
The certainty of sous-lieutenant Villain’s reply surprised Mathieu.
“No?”
“No. He needed to be part of things. When he was left on his own, he backed away. Always. He had to be reassured at every turn. If he pulled the trigger, someone else must have loaded the gun and pointed it for him.” Marcel Villain had no doubt. He looked up at Mathieu and asked, “Do you think he was a lone killer?”
The detective was obliged to answer. This conversation transcended confidentiality. “No, I don’t. And he has very powerful friends, you know. They can provide the best of lawyers. They have bent the law to keep him out of court until they think it politic to have a trial. And you have to ask why?”
“He wrote to me shortly after his arrest. A strange letter. I had the feeling that it was written for the benefit of someone else. He repeated that he had been responsible for murdering Jean Jaurès as if it was in doubt.”
“I’ve read it and I agree.”
Marcel was taken aback. He had not considered that the police had read his private correspondence.
“We thought he, or rather his advisers, were trying to stop the inquiry going any further. When it comes to court, if it comes to court, the letter he sent you will be produced as evidence that he was unbalanced at the time, and acted alone.”
Another moment of awkward silence left each man to his own thoughts.
“Evidence has been tampered with. In truth we don’t know for sure if the prosecution has the right guns. Witnesses will come out of the woodwork. As long as your brother insists he was alone, no one can prove it a lie.”
“And he thinks he started this damned war.”
“Conceit?”
“Yes, he had plenty of that as a boy.”
“Well, my friend, you do not. Don’t throw your life away needlessly. You risk your life for France every day. You … I’m proud to know.”
It was a fact. And on such a basis of honesty, they parted.
25
Greeks Bearing Gifts
Mathieu left the aerodrome in the early morning grey without saying goodbye. It was simpler that way. The officer in charge organized a car to take him to Souilly. The route down to the famous village was remarkably busy and they were obliged to sit behind a six-wheeled truck, commandeered for military purposes. The sky seemed to be permanently blotched with blackening cloud, but the rain had yet to make an appearance. Aware that he had to cover his tracks, Mathieu told the driver that he intended to make his way to Chalons-en-Champagne and onwards by train to Paris.
His antenna was on high alert. Anyone in his path might be an informer. Timon was unlikely to have gone far. Zaharoff’s man had money, and money bought good information. Souilly was, as ever, the busiest crossroads in France. Few of the trucks showed any interest in stopping in the village, and when Mathieu’s driver slowed to let him climb down, an irritated policeman shouted, “Keep moving. You can’t stop in the village. Keep moving. We’ve got to clear this patch.”
He barely had time to say thanks before the car had rejoined the flow. Mathieu headed back to the canal. With luck Bistrot might already have tied up his barge near Saint-Mihiel. If not, he would walk along the towpath towards Toul. Papers in hand, he approached the corner where the border patrol had previously been stationed, but no one was there. Deserted. Perhaps the soldiers had been positioned on a different corner? But as the road twisted towards the canal he realized that all was not as it should be. Mathieu stopped to listen. Nothing. Dead air. The silence of the grave. He was back inside the death zone. A high-pitched whine broke from the grey above, dropped an octave through an evil glissando and crashed to the ground half a kilometer away. He was thrown sideways as the world churned and spewed its innards high into the air, nauseating waves of indignation scattering indiscriminate stones and soil from order to chaos, ripping confusion through the unprotected field. Another mighty explosion followed within a second, emphasizing a power that could not be seen. Under the canopy of raining death Mathieu felt the horror of impotence. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, nowhere to escape the monstrous contagion of an artillery bombardment. Lie still. Hide as best you can. Merge with mother earth. Seek her protection. Covered in soil and pulverized stone he watched death’s shadow flirt with the skyline. He couldn’t catch a breath. And so it would end.
But life resisted the temptation to give in so easily. He coughed a gasp of earthen air, shook free the clutches of defeat, and panting, trembling, realized that he had barely been touched. Within a beat of time a duller volley thundered its reply repaying shock in like kind. Still clinging to his newly defined mother, Mathieu pieced together what was happening. Here on the edge of lunacy one combatant had greeted the other with a morning wave as if to say, “Are you still there?” and the other, charged with a response, answered, “I’m well, as you can see.” The target lay inside the minds of helpless soldiers whose sacrifice did not matter to the profiteers of war; the munitions men; the political class with warped ambition who ordained this waste in the name of civilization. He had seen them, and knew a few by name, but dared not speak … yet.
