Landscape of Shadows, page 10
He now has one minute in which to respond. If he does not, he will have two more chances, two more times when the light will appear twice, at ten-second intervals. If there is still no response from him, the rendezvous will be aborted, either for good or to be attempted on another night, provided that is possible—and bearing in mind that tonight may already be a second attempt.
He has a box of matches ready. He switches off the bulb over the staircase and raises the blackout blind. He strikes a light and extinguishes it immediately, allowing it to flare into life but no more. He counts ten seconds and repeats the procedure.
He lowers the blind and hurries up the service stairs as silently as before, and listens outside the door of Wolff’s suite; from there he descends one flight and listens at the aide’s door. Both men are snoring.
He returns downstairs and detours to the bar to collect the Browning, puts on the workman’s cap, goes out to the courtyard and stands in the archway, where he strikes and immediately extinguishes a third match.
Seconds later, over to his left, a figure emerges from the darkness, a single shadow detaching itself from that landscape of shadows. If he looks directly at it he misses it; he has to focus his gaze past it to catch it in the corner of his eye, another trick of the darkness with which he has become familiar.
The figure may have entered the grounds just now through a side gate, or perhaps it was already waiting within the grounds. It crosses the grassy stretch between the old maze and the trees and moves towards him, head bowed as it watches its footing where the undergrowth has encroached on what was once a lawn.
The figure is silent, not praying—at any rate, not praying aloud—and it is certainly not sobbing. But out here on a lonely night, especially if a soft wind is moving through the trees, an observer’s imagination—if there should happen to be an observer, one given to heeding country legends—such an observer’s imagination could add those features readily enough.
As the old-timers in the bar of the Picardie tell each other with a shiver, maybe Duc Henri’s ghostly friar exists; maybe not. It is all very well for Max to ridicule such tales, but who really knows, who can say for sure?
But the memory of the unfortunate monk, or the notion of him at least, is honored by this shadowy apparition passing through the night; and by the many others that have preceded it on moonless nights under Max Duval’s vigilant gaze.
Should anyone other than Duc Henri be watching.
CHAPTER 24
SOPHIE IS WATCHING.
It took forever but she finally won her battle with the window and removed the pane of glass. She climbed out and made for the barn. It was somewhere to hide, a place where she could think. She badly needed to do that.
She was still shaken, her heart was still racing, and the pain in her damaged hands was almost unbearable. But there was more than physical pain for her to deal with.
Until that moment when she saw the German her plan had been straightforward—to recover her bicycle and be on her way. She was unarmed, she had no identity card, no money, all thanks to Max, but none of that would stop her. She would board a train somewhere, clandestinely, she would find a way, and hope for the best. She would choose a station further from Dinon than Rue because the Germans would be looking for her there. She would just keep going until she found a station where she could hide nearby until passenger trains resumed running. Or she might happen upon another freight train.
It would take as long as it took—possibly more than what was left of this night, so she might have to lie low during daylight hours. If the bicycle gave out on her, she would steal another one or walk. She would steal food if she could not go without. Anything to get away from here and return to the familiar streets of Paris.
That was her plan, such as it was. A simple outline, with many flaws and gaps, but still a plan, something with which to start, to see her on her way. But now that simple plan is no longer enough. Not now. With the sight of that German, everything has changed.
But as she reaches the shelter of the barn her thoughts are interrupted by the quiet creak of a door somewhere in the courtyard behind her, a sound so quiet that she almost misses it. But she does hear, and crouches down in time to see someone step into the courtyard and go to stand under the archway. A man in a cap. A man with a gun in his hand.
She crouches lower, fearful he will see her, for he is looking all around. She realizes it is Max himself. Then she recognizes the same guardedness in him as she is exercising, and understands that he is not looking for her or anyone else down here at ground level; he is making sure he is not visible from any of the upstairs windows overlooking the courtyard.
Even more puzzling is the odd business with the match that she then witnesses, how Max lights it and extinguishes it all at once.
She sees a flutter of movement off to the left and watches in astonishment as a dark figure, no more than a shadow, appears out of nowhere, out of that deep countryside darkness she mistrusts, and seems to float over what must once have been the fancy gardens of this place. The figure joins Max in the archway.
All this in complete silence—no greetings exchanged, not a word spoken.
Moments later she sees the flutter of movement repeated as the night condenses into another shadow and a second figure materializes. It follows its predecessor to Max and the archway.
Again, no greetings, no words uttered. A silent and secret choreography of the night, intended, she is sure, for no audience of any kind—least of all her.
She waits. Seconds later, a third figure, also hurrying to the archway; also in silence.
She continues waiting, but this time the darkness remains undisturbed.
Three soundless shadows, all now hidden under that archway. All of them men, she is sure. And young, she thinks, considering how briskly they moved as they negotiated the dark grounds.
All joining Max as if they are in his care.
In his care? In a collaborator’s care? Then what does that make them—fellow collaborators? More traitors for her to report to her leaders in Paris?
All this activity—suspicious and surely illegal—while his German guests sleep peacefully above, including the German Feldkommandant. She tries to make sense of what she is seeing. What is Max up to, Max Duval this friend of Germans, what is he doing at this hour that he so clearly does not want those same Germans to know about? Exactly what is going on here?
The answer comes to her. And it fits perfectly, because it is precisely what she would expect of him.
The black market. Profiteering.
What she is observing must be a deal of some kind in progress, an illicit meeting or business transaction. She recalls what he said about the special status of this precious hotel of his. He has access to goods that are unavailable to law-abiding citizens who lack influence and connections—so why not sell some of those goods on the black market?
It all makes sense now.
Or does it? Something still nags at her, a warning that this explanation is too simple. Nothing about Max Duval and this place is simple. She thinks again about those three shadowy figures in the archway with Max—all of them male, all of them young, moving so swiftly through this darkness that she hates.
Suddenly she finds herself confronted by another explanation. But it is so outrageous that she denies it at once, instinctively rules it out. Or tries to. Because that explanation would contradict everything she has discovered about this Hôtel Picardie and its proprietor.
But still … could that be the very point of this place? A place of contradictions. Like Max himself.
The possibility is there and she cannot pretend otherwise. This Hôtel Picardie may not be what it seems.
Likewise Max Duval.
“Who are you, Max Duval? What are you?”
CHAPTER 25
MAX CASTS A final glance towards where the tiny bursts of light appeared. No way of telling whether someone is still over there, waiting, watching to see if anything goes wrong, or whether they have already departed, their role complete, their part of tonight’s undertaking done.
He makes the men stand close against the deep side wall of the arch, a blind spot hidden from the upstairs windows. He quickly pats each man down to check for weapons. Too many escape lines have been infiltrated by German agents and informers, with operators like him paying with their lives.
If all follows the usual procedure, the men will be here in the Picardie for only a few nights. He does not know who passed the message to Pierre that they were about to arrive. Nor does he know who will then take them from Juliette Labarthe when it is time for her to lead them out of Dinon and on to the next stage of their journey. He is the cell leader but he does not want this information.
The cell consists of the three of them—Max, Pierre and Juliette—plus Bruno, Auguste, and the cell’s radio operator. Only Max knows the identity of this last individual, radio operators always being particularly fiercely protected because of the rarity of their skills and the extreme danger they put themselves in: radio signals can be monitored and tracked to source.
The radio operator is in fact Laure Rioche—none other than Widow Rioche, eavesdropper and apparent gossip. Her radio transmitter could have no better hiding place than within the complex wiring and delicate electronics of her switchboard.
Pierre’s medical expertise and Juliette’s pharmaceutical knowledge and stockroom of medical supplies complete the structure of a self-contained cell.
Always the priority is to protect the security of the escape line. So the Dinon cell is a cut-out from the rest of the line. And there are cut-outs within the cell itself: knowledge is restricted. Max is the only person who has to be in contact with Laure Rioche, which is why only he knows her identity. She in turn knows only of Max’s involvement in their work; she does not know the identities or roles of the others.
All of them accept that if any of them is uncovered and interrogated by the Germans, they will inevitably give up everything they know—a simple reality. So the requirement is to limit the damage. What the individual does not know, they cannot tell. The rest of the line will remain secure, and Dinon’s part in it can be rebuilt somewhere else. “Need to know only” is the golden rule, and they stick to it. The precautions they take are basic but they have served the cell and the escape line well.
It occurs to Max that Sophie Carrière’s leaders, the hard men in Paris, could learn from the Dinon cell. Maybe one day they will.
But only if they last long enough.
CHAPTER 26
SHE HAS HEARD talk in Paris about secret underground networks that spirit people away from the Germans, conveying them along secret routes and through a system of safe houses and trusted contacts, links in chains that stretch the length of France and beyond. She has heard that these networks take people into Switzerland or over the Pyrenees to Spain, even across the Mediterranean from Marseille to North Africa, delivering them ultimately to safety in England.
Escape lines, she has heard them called. Is that what she is witnessing here tonight? Mysterious lights in dead of night; men flitting like ghosts through the darkness, allowing themselves to be searched as though they expect nothing less: not at all the behavior of equals in a business transaction, not even if it is a black-market trade.
Not the black market, then, but something even more illegal. And more dangerous. A form of resistance as hazardous as her own. Perhaps what appears to be a den of collaborators is the ideal cover for such an operation.
She remembers how Max criticized her leaders in Paris for sending her and Jean-Luc on their mission to Dinon. He claimed that such missions were a waste of life.
“There are other ways,” was what he said.
What she is witnessing now—is this what he meant by those other ways? An escape line operating in the Hôtel Picardie?
If so, what does that do to her opinion of Max Duval?
CHAPTER 27
MAX STAYS BEHIND the men, the Browning semi-automatic always in hand, and guides them in single file along the edge of the courtyard, keeping close to the wall, and towards the rear service door. Halfway along, they pass Wolff’s armored car parked in the garage block. Max points to the Picardie’s upper floors and then to the vehicle. The need for silence and caution could not be made any plainer.
The service door opens into a windowless hallway. Empty crates and boxes are stacked against one wall. Another door leads from the hallway into the kitchen. The hallway is where deliveries of food and other supplies are received. It is as far as it is possible to be from the public and guest areas of the hotel. It is where Max can handle the next step in safety. No one will see; no one will hear.
When all of them are inside, he locks the outer door and switches on the overhead light. He sees faces pallid and taut with anxiety. The men are young, almost as young as Sophie Carrière.
The briefing notes he collected from Laure Rioche on his visit to the switchboard room yesterday tell him that they are British bomber crew, all from one aircraft. But again his information is limited: he does not know where their aircraft was brought down, under what circumstances, whether they crash-landed or bailed out. Their total combat crew could have been five or six strong, possibly more. The others might have been captured or perhaps they did not survive—something else he has no need or wish to know.
He turns to the tall man who seems to be their leader, the one who was the first to arrive at the archway.
“Do any of you speak French?”
He puts the question in English. The most common nationality that comes down the line is British. So far only four men have spoken French—two Canadians and two French pilots who had made their way to England when France fell and then joined British aircraft squadrons.
In terms of linguistic skills, these three young men prove to be as disappointing as the rest.
The airman shakes his head. “Sorry, no French.”
Max continues in English. “You are not in uniform, so the Germans will say you are spies if they capture you. Spies are not sent to prisoner-of-war camps. They are simply shot—interrogated first, then shot.”
“We know.”
“While you are here you will do what I say—because I will shoot you if I have to. You understand?”
The airman has a resigned look, as if he has heard all this before. “We understand. Basically, everybody gets to shoot us.”
Max gestures for them to sit on the crates. He takes the only chair and unfolds Laure’s notes. The Browning remains in his other hand by way of warning and reminder.
“I will ask questions. You will not help each other.”
There is no need for him to explain this deadly game that could end in the summary execution of any or all of the men. They will have been through some version of it before. They will already know that would-be escapers and evaders like them have been executed for failing to convince their hosts that they are genuine. They will have been told about the German tactic of planting agents to pose as Allied airmen when an aircraft is brought down. For Max it is significant that these three are all apparently from the same air-crew—meaning either that all of them are genuine or that all are infiltrators, German agents.
He begins with the leader.
“What is the name of your commanding officer?”
The questions are always different, unique to each individual or group admitted to the line. Sometimes they are trivial and everyday, sometimes technical. It depends on what is transmitted to Laure by London. Max trusts that they are based on information that no German imposter could know.
“He’s called Harrison, Ted Harrison,” replies the tall airman. “His name is really Edward but he calls himself Ted.”
“He has a dog. Tell me what type and its name.”
“Labrador. She’s called Peggy.”
Max turns to one of the others.
“What was your target destination on your last flight?”
The answer comes in a stammer. “M–Münster.”
“What happened to your aircraft when it was about to be air-tested that day?”
The man is nervous. He glances at his leader, who turns away immediately, to avoid any suggestion of collusion.
“Faulty landing g–gear,” the young man manages. In his nervousness he continues talking. “Unluck–unlucky omen. And it—”
Max raises a hand to silence him.
Now the final man.
“Tell me the name of the last person whose birthday you celebrated on your base.”
A moment’s thought; then: “Jock MacIntyre.” A grin directed at his companions. “We had a good night, that night.”
“What is his work, his job?”
“Ground crew chief.”
The questions continue until the check is complete. As far as Max can tell, the men are who and what they claim to be. He folds Laure’s notes and puts them away.
“You will wait now,” he instructs the three men.
He goes through to the kitchen, turning the key in the door behind him so that the men remain locked in the hallway.
What will happen now is not for them to see.
Max gives Duc Henri his due: the ill-starred aristocrat did nothing by halves. For his portrait he no doubt presented himself in his favorite attire, ensuring that posterity would remember him at his very best. He was not to know that posterity would come somewhat sooner than he anticipated. And when the masterpiece was complete, he did not stint on the magnificent frame surrounding it, an extravagant creation of gilded wood and gesso, fussy with laurel leaves and complex foliage and curlicues.
But not all the foliage is wood or plaster. Two of the large leaves on the right-hand side are made of solid iron, painted gold to match the rest of the frame.
Max pulls hard on both leaves together, drawing them towards himself. They rise smoothly from their bed of foliage. A solid clunk sounds, as of a spring-loaded mechanism releasing, and the portrait and its section of oak paneling swing clear from the wall, the right-hand side now open by several centimeters.
