Seldom did she use those, but always they were Russian but not from the stems of the plant. ‘Of course. Forgive me. Here … here, sit, please, at your dressing table. Rest. You put so much of yourself into every song, you must be exhausted.’
‘Then light it for me.’
She was trembling, he was, too. Ah merde, what the hell was happening to them?
He held her. They did not kiss, they clung, and when at last he had relaxed his hold, it was herself who whispered, ‘Merci, mon amour, I didn’t know for sure and now do.’
Only then did they kiss, something Hermann was never going to hear of for fear he would never shut up about it.
Taking out his little notebook, Jean-Louis found a blank page and wrote: Sonderkommando. An informant. A submarine they want who knows something Berlin must absolutely have. A Kriminalrat who has threatened Oona and Giselle, yourself as well.
Was it the end for them? Taking his pen, she wrote: And what, please, of my Rene Yvon-Paul, the countess and the Chateau Theriault and its contents, lands and vineyards?
A practical woman. Everything, so please take precautions. We may all be lost, but for now Hermann and me know far more about that submarine than does this Heinrich Ludin and his SD colonel who has yet to even have a name.
Silently she would tear the page free, felt Gabrielle, and lighting it with the end of her cigarette, watched the flames until done.
Crumbling the ashes to dust, she carefully blew them away.
Hermann didn’t wait. Hermann just roared into the back courtyard leaning on the horn and then pounded on the back door. ‘Louis … Louis …’
Ah merde, he was in tears. ‘Here, take a few drags of this but remember it’s Russian.’
‘Take these too,’ said Gabrielle, removing others from that cigarette case Jean-Louis would never forget and receiving a last touch of his fingers-was it that?
‘Matches,’ blurted Hermann. ‘We’ve run out.’
Those, too, were handed over, Jean-Louis momentarily giving her fingertips a final squeeze.
‘Ach, verdammt, Louis, don’t dawdle. I’ll drive. We’ll never get there otherwise.’
‘Where?’
‘Neuilly. Boemelburg’s villa but first Rudy de Merode’s little nest.’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Unfortunately I am.’
* The Bovril of France.
* The King James version of the Bible.
* Word of mouth. Literally, ‘mouth radio.’
* The Prosper, Scientist, and Donkeyman networks were among those that had been in wireless touch with the British Special Operations Executive in London.
* The V-1 and V-2 rocket bombs, the first V-1s being launched against London on 13 June 1944.
5
Cloaked in that same darkness, and with but one tiny blue and legal light announcing its entrance, 70 boulevard Maurice-Barres, a sumptuous hotel before the defeat, overlooked the Bois de Boulogne and its Jardin d’Acclimatation. Six cars were out front under the spreading dark limbs of the chestnut trees that were revered by the haute bourgeoisie of this most wealthy of suburbs.
‘Two with engines still running, Louis, and no drivers.’
Had Hermann downed too many of those damned pills? ‘Patience, mon vieux. Patience.’
‘The time for that is over.’
It had been a harrowing drive through the late-evening traffic. Smashed side-mirrors, crumpled fenders … how were they to be replaced?
Switching off the still blinkered headlights and engine, Hermann locked the doors and, taking the Purdey from the boot, checked to see that it was still loaded.
‘Cover my back, and that’s an order.’
Celebrating with champagne, cigarettes, cigars, canapes and all the rest, the crowd was in what had once been an opulent dining room. The fleurs-de-lis sconces with their crystal globes were still giving light from the fluted pilasters, the chandeliers still throwing plenty of it from electric candles, but no longer were there the Longchamp racecourse paintings of winner after winner. Instead, there was the degenerate art of the Fuhrer’s Third Reich-magnificent Gaugins, Van Goghs, Picassos, Braques … Ah mon Dieu, Monets, Bonnards, Cezannes and Matisses, Degas, too, and others like those they had found in Hector Bolduc’s office, all as if shoved aside to await trucking to whatever depot. With them were the antique furniture of the latest acquisitions along with the bulging leather suitcases and wardrobe trunks of the desperate, the arrested, deported and robbed.
Perhaps twenty or so men and ten or so females were in attendance. All had been toasting the evening’s little entertainment, yet were now watchfully silent. Cigarettes clung to lower lips or, like the cigars and cigarettes in holders, had paused, the fingernails of one vermillion, a canape being crushed under that spike-heeled foot. And among them all, and looking entirely like the successful businessman he wasn’t, but in a deep-blue pinstripe with illegal pocket flaps and broad lapels, was the leader of this mob.
The handkerchief pocket sported silk and four gold fountain pens, and above it was one of the phosphorescent red swastika buttons favoured by the Occupier for those little walks in the utter darkness of the streets.
‘Rudy de Merode, alias Frederic Martin,’ sang out Hermann. ‘Born 1905 in the Moselle, Louis. Abwehr agent since 1928, arrested for selling plans and secrets of the Maginot Line in 1936 and given … What was it?’
Ah merde, he’d taken far too much of that stuff the Luftwaffe’s night-fighters needed to stay awake. ‘Ten years, Herr Inspektor.’
‘In Fresnes or the Sante?’
‘Hermann …’
‘Louis, you really are going to have to leave this to me.’
Released from the Sante by the Abwehr just after the defeat, Rudy had been given a ‘purchasing agency’ and put to work recruiting helpers from among his prison acquaintances and even those he still had contact with among the police and fire departments. But soon his equipe, his groupe, was handling all the security for the warehouses and transport of materials, not only for the Central Purchasing Agency, the Bureau Otto, but for the Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg.
Progressing beyond that mission, he had been assigned the collecting of gold bullion and coins from those same victims and others, now in total, it was said, more than four tonnes. And since rampant inflation and the food shortages drove people to illegally sell valuables on the marche noir, Rudy and his men frequented the bars, clubs and restaurants, posing as buyers, and even kept an eye on the monts-de-piete, the state-owned, municipal pawn shops to see who was unloading what. But if a seller objected to being robbed, an invitation would be extended and the ‘client’ brought here and taken upstairs for a little persuasion.
‘And a bath if necessary, Louis.’
To be held under. ‘Anti-terrorism and the hunting down of resistants are now a further task, Hermann.’
‘Just let me deal with those who wrecked that shop and manhandled Muriel and Chantal while abducting Oona and Giselle.’
Something would have to be said to break the impasse, felt Rudy. ‘Ah bon, mes amis, me I’m glad you’ve got that off your chests, but un fusil de chasse, Herr Kohler? Un douze a deux coups?’
‘Et un Lebel Modele d’ordonnance, Rudy, the 1873 with those black-powder cartridges no one but a fool would want,’ said the one who, unseen until now, had moved to stand at his side: the hair a pale, washed-out blond, the jacket and vest of a heavy beige twill, the trousers of corduroy, and the tie subdued, but once a policeman, even if under the czar at first and then under the Prefet de Paris, always one, no matter what.