Landscape of Shadows, page 17
“And when we’re in the barracks?” Juliette is asking. “What happens to us there? Interrogation? Torture?” She whispers the word as if voicing it aloud might make it more certain.
Pierre makes a gentle murmur of reassurance. “Don’t upset yourself, Juliette, don’t worry.”
She faces Max. “I’ve put myself in your hands, Max. I hope I haven’t made a bad decision.”
This is another puzzle for Pierre. “In Max’s hands? What do you mean?”
“Max, look at me.” Juliette is even more fearful now. Her voice cracks, she speaks more quickly. “I’ve done what you asked. I have no way of cheating Wolff. You said I’d be safe. You said to trust you.” She takes a step towards him.
“Stay where you are,” he snaps.
She stops in her tracks, shocked by his tone.
It is finally too much for Pierre.
“What’s going on, Max? Juliette, what are you talking about? What did Max ask of you?”
Before either of them can answer, the double doors of the mairie and the Kommandantur swing open. Wolff comes out and stands on the top step. He surveys the three of them—Juliette, now trembling visibly; Pierre, still calm, but perplexed; and Max.
Max, whose attention has been drawn away from Wolff and to a shadow that is separating itself from the darkness on the other side of the square.
Max, who is watching Geneviève as she returns his gaze.
CHAPTER 46
BRUNO TAKES SOPHIE along the corridor and through the kitchen to a locked and windowless hallway. Three men are standing amid a muddle of empty crates and boxes. So now the ghostly shadows she saw arriving in dead of night have become men of flesh and blood. They cannot conceal their surprise on seeing her but all of them remain silent, and it strikes her that silence in the presence of others has become their habitual state over whatever period of time they have been on the run and in hiding.
The chef marches her and the airmen—she has decided that is what they are—out to the courtyard at gunpoint. His nervousness is worse now that he has so many to control. He stays behind all of them on the walk to the archway, and, it seems to her, as much out of the men’s sight as possible. This behavior and that shapeless old hat—she realizes he is trying to hide his identity from the men.
Now, as the five of them wait beneath the archway, she thinks about what happened when she asked the chef about Max’s safety. His whole face altered, as if his jowls were sliding down around that moustache, as if a great effort of will had been holding everything in place until her question severed whatever threads of self-control he was relying on.
It was grief she was seeing: grief over Max. Yesterday it was fear for him that she heard in Bruno’s voice; but tonight it is outright grief that she sees in his strained face.
Which can only mean that she must prepare her own heart for grief.
CHAPTER 47
MAX BLINKS. HE turns to glance at Wolff, then looks across the square again.
Geneviève has gone. Now there are only vehicles and soldiers over there, where she was, and anywhere else he looks. Nothing but the Germans and their paraphernalia of war.
But she was there. She is waiting. For that he is thankful.
“Monsieur!” calls Wolff. “It seems that one of your fellow notables is absent—Monsieur Froment. I hope this is not a cause for concern. I hope his courage has not failed him.”
“Auguste Froment will be here.”
Wolff descends a step. “And the assassin, Monsieur—where is he? You said you would bring him here, to place de la Mairie. So where is he?”
Max senses rather than sees Pierre and Juliette start in surprise; he knows they have turned to stare at him.
“What does he mean?” hisses Pierre. “Max, what’s going on?”
Max moves a little further away from them, accordingly reducing the distance between himself and Wolff by a few more paces. The troopers in the truck do not react.
Wolff descends the final step.
Max checks on Pierre and Juliette from the corner of his eye. They have not moved, they have not come any closer to him.
This is the moment. It has to be. There will not be a better one.
He opens his jacket.
But gets no further. A howl cuts through the night, loud and piercing, an unearthly wail of despair that climbs in pitch then descends into a scream of anger. He swings around to locate the origin of the sound.
Auguste has entered the square, closely pursued by Marie. She may claim poor health but her lungs are fine—it was she who howled and now she continues to harangue her husband. She catches up with him, flings her arms about him and tries to pull him back, determined to prevent him joining Max and the others. They stumble together into the middle of the square.
Max watches in dismay. Until this moment everything was proceeding as he had planned. Now all is in disarray, spiraling out of his control. He can do nothing. Auguste and Marie have seized the attention of every person in place de la Mairie—every trooper in the trucks and on the pavements, and undoubtedly also the marksmen on roofs, in alleyways, in every darkened building.
But now Wolff’s voice rings out again, loud and clear. And angry.
“Enough!”
The command silences even Marie. She and Auguste stand frozen in place.
Most importantly, the command also brings every German eye to focus on Wolff. And, through simple proximity, on the man who has now closed the distance between them yet again.
Max Duval.
Perhaps all is not lost.
CHAPTER 48
THE FLICKER OF light was there, she saw it. It lasted no more than a single second, then was gone. She remembers how Max made his match light and immediately die.
She hears Bruno’s sudden intake of breath and knows that he too has seen the signal. So has the tallest of the airmen, whose stance has stiffened.
Some seconds pass, perhaps ten she thinks, and the flicker of light appears again.
She hears the rustle of a matchbox and realizes that the chef is trying to open it while holding the pistol—and still shaking like a leaf. He will end up shooting himself or her or one of the airmen.
She hears the soft patter of matches falling to the ground.
“Damnation!”
She hears the scratch of a match being struck. But instead of bursting into flame it snaps and falls to the ground.
She stretches her arm across the chef’s vast chest and, without a word, grasps the matchbox. He is so surprised—or perhaps so desperate—that he lets her take it.
She holds the box in front of her at arm’s length, calmly strikes a match and blows it out immediately, she hopes exactly as required.
“Do it again,” Bruno whispers. They have become partners in the enterprise now. “Ten seconds—”
But she has anticipated that and is already counting. She strikes and extinguishes a second match.
“One minute now,” he says. “A minute, then it’s done.”
Again she counts silently, then strikes and extinguishes the third match.
She returns the matchbox to him.
She has not spoken throughout. She knows he is trying to look at her in the darkness, but she does not look up at him, instead concentrating on watching the night, this darkness that she knows she cannot trust.
Waiting with Bruno to see if between the two of them they have done things right—the way Max would have done them.
Waiting to see if she is on her way from here.
Whether or not that is what she truly wants.
CHAPTER 49
MAX CALLS OUT at the top of his voice.
“Major! The assassin is here!”
The effect of his words is immediate. Wolff tears his gaze from Auguste and Marie, and swivels to look at him.
Now is the moment for Max to bring out the pistol for all in the square to see. Now is the moment for him to raise the weapon and take aim at Wolff—but not too fast. For in that beat of time as his intention is understood, Wolff’s men, his troopers and the marksmen, will see what he is doing, they will understand the danger to their Feldkommandant. They will open fire. Some of their bullets will fly wild and may find Pierre or Juliette, despite all Max’s efforts to keep them distant from him and safe. But many more will assuredly find their intended target, the man who is aiming a pistol with lethal intent at their Feldkommandant.
Max Duval.
So many guns, so many bullets. His death will be quick and merciful. He will know nothing of it. There will be no interrogation of him, no confessing the truth or giving up the escape line, no betraying of Laure Rioche or Bruno. Pierre and Juliette and Auguste will walk away from here, free. The six other citizens, including Paul Burnand, will not face a firing squad. They will return to their families. There will be no further arrests or executions of innocent citizens.
There will be no doubt over his guilt: Max Duval, not only the attempted killer of Egon Wolff tonight but surely also therefore the assailant of two loyal troopers of the German Reich, the assassin for whom Wolff has been hunting with such determination.
Wolff’s manhunt will be over. Sophie Carrière will be safe.
All this, to be obtained so easily.
A single life. That is all it will take.
His hand closes on the Beretta, its steel warmed by his body.
The night explodes. Searchlights mounted on the trucks blaze into life. Place de la Mairie becomes a blinding furnace of light. The roar of gunfire is deafening. Volleys of bullets shriek through the air. Clusters of light from barrel flashes burst and die on rooftops, in those dark windows, in alleyways, on the trucks.
Death comes speeding in the night.
CHAPTER 50
HER NERVES ARE at breaking point. She does not know what she and Bruno and the airmen are waiting for now. She did the business with the matches just as the chef instructed. So why is nothing happening? Did he get it wrong after all? Or did she?
There is a roar of gunfire in the distance. She jumps in alarm, as do all of them. The chef emits a loud groan. For a moment he seems to lose his balance and stumbles against her as if he might topple over and bring them both to the ground. She feels him make a mighty effort and steady himself. She hears him muttering under his breath but cannot make out any of his words.
She feels sure that the gunfire was in the direction of Dinon. It was the roar of many weapons but lasted only a few seconds, as if those weapons had a specific target and that target has been dealt with.
Terrible fears rush through her mind. They all involve Max.
Then, among Bruno’s mutterings, she hears something that turns her blood cold. A single word, a name: Max’s name. Only once does the chef utter it; but once is enough.
She rounds on him.
“What is it?” she demands. “Tell me, Bruno—has something happened to Max?”
He pays no attention. She pounds a fist against his chest. She might as well punch the wall of the archway. He seizes both her wrists effortlessly in his free hand and locks her in position at his side. He is staring over her head into the darkness.
She twists around in his grip and sees the dark figure that is moving soundlessly towards them. It halts some meters away, still too distant for her to make out any features or even whether it is a man or a woman.
“Go!” the chef growls. But the command is not aimed at her; he has turned to the airmen and is addressing them. He is no longer whispering; this time he is all urgency as he hurls the instruction at them.
“Go!” he repeats. “Now!”
They may not understand his words, but his meaning is plain enough this time, aided by the pistol that he pokes into the tall airman’s ribs. The man sets out, uncertainly at first, then more confidently when the dark figure waves him onward. The others follow.
Now it is her turn. The chef looms over her. As the airmen step away he looks down at her. She catches the usual whiff of tobacco breath.
“And you now—go with them!”
He releases her wrists. She does not move.
“Damnation! What’s keeping you? Get out of here!”
The dark figure is waiting for her, as are the airmen, themselves now shadows.
“What’s happened to Max? For God’s sake, Bruno, tell me.”
The chef pushes her away. “Go! It’s what he wanted. If you care so much about him, do what he wanted.”
And now she runs. But not to join the others, not to follow them.
The darkness in the barn is almost impenetrable. A tremor runs through her but she holds her nerve, finds the bicycles and grabs one. As soon as she mounts it she realizes it is not the one that brought her here. But there is no time to choose another, and it will take her where she wants to go, that is all she cares about.
Seconds later she is on the road to Dinon, carrying with her that dreadful, shapeless fear that seems to have scraped out her insides.
Where is Max? What has become of him?
CHAPTER 51
THE COMBINED IMPACT of the gunfire and the blinding searchlights is physically and mentally debilitating. Max cannot move, as devoid of volition as Pierre’s Chinese mannequin.
There were shouts, he remembers hearing German shouts—commands to open fire that were instantly drowned by the gunfire itself. But now there is complete silence, even more profound than when he arrived in the square, so profound that for a moment he wonders if his eardrums have burst.
Then sound returns as Wolff’s troopers leap from their trucks; the crash of their steel-shod boots striking the cobbles echoes like a drumroll around the square. More commands are shouted. Some troopers take up defensive positions, others keep their weapons aimed at Max and Pierre and Juliette.
But for Max the very fact that he is feeling, hearing, seeing, sensing anything at all—even the fact that he is thinking—means that something is badly wrong. He is unscathed, untouched by a single bullet.
He is alive.
He should not be alive.
His hand still grips the Beretta. He has not brought it out, therefore it has not been observed by anyone. So there is no reason for the gunfire. No reason provided by him.
No, not by him. By whom, then?
He looks at Wolff and sees that the German is staring fixedly at the center of the square. Max shields his eyes against the blaze of the searchlights and follows the Feldkommandant’s gaze.
Auguste and Marie have fallen and now lie motionless on the ground, head touching head, together in death. A shared pool of blackness, a pool of blood, is spreading around them. It gleams dully in the brilliant light.
There is something else on the ground, close to Auguste, just beyond the pool of blood. It is a pistol. Now Max understands. It is the weapon that incited the gunfire—gunfire that should have been concentrated on him.
He forces himself to move and goes over to Auguste and Marie. He is beyond caring whether Wolff will call out to forbid him or whether his men will open fire again.
He crouches down beside Marie. There is no pulse; her eyes are open, sightless, and already clouding.
He goes to Auguste. He is still breathing. Max cradles his friend’s head. Auguste coughs. A stream of thick blood spills from his mouth. His torso is already dark with blood, drenched in it. Considering the number of bullets that have riddled him, it is a wonder his body is holding together.
Pierre arrives beside them, followed by Juliette. The doctor checks Marie, reaching the same conclusion as Max. Juliette begins to rip open Auguste’s shirt to inspect the damage, but Pierre places a gentle hand on her shoulder and stops her with a solemn shake of his white head. His gaze meets Max’s. His message is plain.
Auguste coughs softly again, a liquid wheeze.
“I didn’t get the bastard.” The words are barely audible.
“No matter, Auguste,” Max tells him. “You’re still a hero. Marie says so.”
“Dear Max.”
Auguste manages a sorrowful smile. A final breath, a sigh, rustles in his throat. His head falls back and he is still.
CHAPTER 52
SHE RETRACES THE route that brought her from Dinon to the railway line on that ill-fated night when she came here. This time the gradient is in her favor. Her enforced incarceration has provided her with rest and good food, restoring her strength. She covers the distance in a fraction of the time her outward journey took.
Tonight the road is as deserted as it was three nights ago—and just as dark, with its malevolent countryside blackness. All the more reason to get tonight’s journey over with as quickly as possible. But tonight she sees changes. She passes through places where roadblocks seem to have been in place, presumably as part of the Germans’ hunt for her—the Feldkommandant’s hunt. There are barriers but they are raised now and there is no sign of any German troopers to man them. More than that, she sees and hears no trace of any Germans at all, anywhere, as she races on. No foot patrols, no vehicles, no boots crunching, no engines revving. It is surreal and unnerving, as if every last German has been made to disappear by a great magician.
But what she does discover is a glow of brilliant white light in the dark sky ahead of her. It hangs above the clustered rooftops of Dinon, suggesting that, despite the blackout regulations that are keeping every house and building in darkness, many searchlights are illuminating a part of the town. Wherever those searchlights are, they must be making it as bright as day. Why would the Germans disregard their own blackout in that manner?
Whatever is happening tonight, it is surely happening beneath that cone of light. And that is where she will find the explanation of the terrifying thunderclap of gunfire.
Most important of all, it might be where she will find Max.
So it is towards the white glow that she pushes herself, never daring to examine the darkness about her too closely, filled with fear but offering her thanks to Jean-Luc, if his soul can hear her, for his insistence back in Paris that she should memorize the map of Dinon that is still so clear in her mind.
