Codename Eagle (8 page)

Paul risked a look through the window. “I don’t think so; they’ve got no reason to hurt her. And anyway, from what I saw, I think your wife can look after herself.”

T
he twins stood in gloomy silence watching their dog devour scraps of fatty meat and leftovers from their own lunchtime meal. The huge mongrel licked the tin bowl clean and then lapped noisily at the fresh water Eddie had poured into a second tin.

The twins had never bothered giving the animal a name, but that didn’t mean they didn’t care about it. They did: they liked the dog, but it wasn’t a pet. It was a working animal, doing its job, keeping watch.

It was docile when the twins were nearby, but only then. The twins could approach without fear, but no one else. Any unfamiliar sound would provoke deep, ferocious barking, while the merest sight or smell of a stranger would see the animal bare its fangs and prepare to attack.

But with the twins, the dog was different. They didn’t offer any affection, but they fed it regularly and made sure its wooden kennel was dry and draught free. And in the depths of winter, when the snow was thick on the ground, the dog was allowed into the house at night, where it slept by the stove before returning to its work place in the morning.

Finishing the water, the animal lifted its head and looked at Eddie, who, without a word, refilled the tin bowl from a can he had carried over from the house. The twins usually said little while they were at work. By the time they left the house they knew exactly what had to be done, so they saved most of their conversation for the evenings.

And besides, they were twins, and like many sets of twins they had an almost telepathic understanding. Both had been thinking a lot that morning, and their thoughts had been along similar lines.

“I didn’t like seeing them drag the woman into the house,” said Eddie, breaking the silence.

“I know,” Gilbert answered. He watched the dog lap up the second bowl of water before continuing. “But they didn’t hurt her.”

“How do we know that? For certain? We’ve been working all morning.”

“The one who stayed behind, the radio operator, he told me she hasn’t been hurt.”

“And you believe him?”

Gilbert hesitated before replying. “He said they’ve given her food. And coffee.”

The dog looked from one twin to the other, as though following their conversation. He shook himself, and padded over to Eddie to stand at his side.

“I didn’t think about this when Forêt asked us to help,” Eddie said.

“Of course you didn’t, you just thought about the money. Like I did.”

“I don’t like this, Gilbert, it doesn’t seem right. Forêt said they were coming to pick up a wanted man. That’s all. I thought he meant he’d be some sort of criminal. And he didn’t say anything about the man’s wife.”

“Maybe he didn’t know.”

“And what if they don’t find the husband, the one they really want? What will they do with the woman then?”

Gilbert glanced over towards the house. “It’s got nothing to do with us, Eddie.”

“You think they’ll take her back to Germany without the husband?”

“They’ll let her go if she’s no use to them.”

Eddie stared at the ground. “Or kill her and bury her somewhere in the forest.”

Gilbert thought back to the previous day on the plateau, when their cousin, Alain, had come perilously close to being shot simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. “We won’t let them kill her.”

“Oh, and how are we supposed to stop them? There are six of them and two of us.”

Gilbert turned and stared at the house again. “There’s only one of them in there now.”

T
he five Germans stood in a ragged semicircle, looking down at Rosalie Granel, who was sprawled on the small sofa in the sitting room, a glass of water in one hand and a sheet of paper, with which she was fanning her face, in the other.

Hauptmann Lau, Steidle, Werner and the two soldiers who had called themselves the Brothers Grimm had combined to lift her fairly gently from the floor, settle her on the chair and fetch her the water.

Now they just stared, limp apologetic smiles on their faces, as they waited for her to speak.

“It was a shock,” she gasped eventually, “such a shock. That big man there,” she aimed at Werner with the hand holding the glass, “and the gun, pointed at my heart. I was certain he was going to shoot me.”

She shivered and rested the sheet of paper over her heart. “I can feel it pounding,” she said dramatically, staring at Lau, who was closest. “My heart. Pounding,” she repeated for emphasis. “I was certain I was going to have a heart attack.” Her voice quivered and she pointed at Werner again. “If he didn’t shoot me first. And then, everything went dark and I knew nothing more until you lifted me from the floor.”

Lau, who spoke almost perfect French, had indicated to his men that he would do the talking. “We’re so sorry, terribly sorry, madame. We had no idea that you would be arriving.”

“But I’m always here at this time, every week,” Rosalie told him. “To do the cleaning. For Julia.”

“Oh, I see,” Lau said.

Rosalie sipped a drop of water as she considered her next words. “But a gun! Here! In Bélesta! Is that really necessary? We’re peaceful people here in Bélesta. You’ll find no criminals here. Is that what you’re doing? Are you searching for criminals?”

Lau thought for a moment before replying. “Not exactly. But we urgently need to speak to Monsieur Bernard.”

“Max? What do you want with Max?”

Lau answered with a question of his own. “Do you know where he is?”

“I have no idea,” Rosalie said sincerely.

“Does he go away often?”

“Away? Is he away?” Rosalie asked innocently. “Where?”

“That’s what we’re trying to discover, Madame…”

“Granel,” Rosalie said. “I live down the street. I’ve lived in Bélesta all my life.”

“Yes, I understand. And as I said, we’re very sorry…”

“But I don’t recognize you, any of you. You’re not local, are you? I know the local police officers; I know everyone.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Then who are you? Where are you from?”

“From Toulouse, Madame Granel.”

“Toulouse? What has Toulouse to do with Bélesta?”

“All I can tell you, madame, is that we’re here on a matter of national importance. And I must ask you to keep that to yourself.”

“Oh, you can trust me. I never say anything to anyone. Not even my husband.”

Lau forced another smile. “Now perhaps you’ll permit me to escort you home?”

“But what about the cleaning?”

“I’m afraid the cleaning will have to wait this week.”

“And what about Julia? Where’s Julia?”

Lau reached down and gently but firmly took one of Rosalie’s arms. “Allow me to help you to your feet, madame.”

“But I’m still feeling a little faint.”

“The air will help you,” Lau said more forcefully as he hoisted the elderly woman to her feet. “You’ll feel better outside.”

“I can manage, thank you,” Rosalie said, pulling herself free. “And there’s really no need for you to come with me. I know the way.”

“But I insist,” Lau told her. “You’re still feeling a little faint; you said so.”

“I feel better now, there’s no need.”

“I insist, madame!”

This time Rosalie realized that there was no arguing. She sighed and walked unsteadily from the sitting room. Lau gestured to Steidle and Werner to accompany him and to the Brothers Grimm to remain where they were.

The two soldiers waited until they heard the front door shut before grinning and sitting down. “She was lucky not to get her head blown off,” the more talkative of them said. “Werner’s trigger-happy, he’s determined to kill someone on this mission.”

The other man nodded his agreement. “First the old girl was certain Werner would shoot her, then she was certain she was having a heart attack. Playing us for fools, she was. And she knows more than she’s letting on.”

“Hauptmann Lau knows that,” the other soldier said. “That’s why he’s gone with her. He’ll find out exactly what she knows. And if he doesn’t, Steidle will.”

T
here was an overpowering reek of garlic as the Spaniard grinned through yellowing teeth at Josette and her grandmother, Odile. At least, Josette thought it was a grin, but it could have been a sneer. The expression had already vanished and the Spaniard was now focusing on cutting another thin slice from the long, fat sausage lying on the wooden chopping board.

Josette reckoned the black sausage was probably made of wild boar, and the pungent smell that filled the room suggested it contained an almost equal amount of garlic.

The Spaniard was a familiar figure in Lavelanet. His name was Inigo, but few people knew that, and if they did, they rarely used it. To most he was simply the Spaniard, or just Spaniard. He was a small man in his mid-thirties, dark-haired, unshaven and dressed in a shirt that looked two sizes too big, and loose-fitting, baggy trousers held up by a rope belt. Inigo looked much older than his years, but his bright, darting eyes and inquisitive look hinted that he was no fool.

Inigo lived alone in a small, dilapidated cottage not far from Odile’s house close by the river. He earned his living by repairing and restoring bicycles. The tiny backyard was stacked with bits of bike: wheels, frames, handlebars, saddles, chains. Inigo was expert in mixing and matching items from unwanted bikes to make a perfectly serviceable machine.

Bits of bike somehow found their way into most rooms in the cottage. Inigo was often at work indoors, so as well as the dominant smell of garlic, there was a background aroma of old leather and grease.

“So, Inigo,” Odile said, as the Spaniard deftly balanced the sliver of sausage on the blade of his razor-sharp knife, “will you help us? I’m sure our friend would be safe with you.”

Inigo offered the sausage to the elderly woman, who smiled and shook her head. “Too strong for me.”

The glinting blade was turned in Josette’s direction, but she also quickly declined.

The small man shrugged and popped the meat into his own mouth, chewing slowly and savouring the taste as he considered Odile’s question. “Well, Madame Mazet,” he said after swallowing, “since I came to Lavelanet you have always been a friend to me. And you’ve always called me by my name.”

“What else would I call you?” Odile said.

“Spaniard,” Inigo said, “or the Spaniard. Do you know, I’m not even Spanish – or not what my people would call Spanish.”

“You’re a Basque,” Odile said.

“Correct!” Inigo was delighted that his visitor remembered that he came from the region in the north of Spain where the inhabitants considered themselves a separate nation. The Spanish government believed differently. “But few bother to find out my name,” Inigo continued, “and if they do, they still can’t be bothered to use it. So I respect you, and I also admire you. Many people in Lavelanet admire you.”

Odile was well liked in the town, but she was immune to flattery and, like her granddaughter, famed for her straight talking. “But you haven’t answered my question,” she said, looking Inigo in the eyes.

“I keep myself to myself these days,” he said, “and I’m not looking for trouble. I’ve had enough of that in the past. And hiding someone from the authorities sounds like trouble to me.”

“I decided to ask you partly because you keep yourself to yourself. And because I believe I can trust you.”

“Thank you, Madame Mazet, that means a great deal to me, but even so, I don’t think I can help.”

“And what if I were to tell you that the person who needs our help says that the men who took away his wife were not gendarmes at all, but German soldiers in disguise?”

Inigo had been toying with the knife, but now his fingers tightened on the grip, his knuckles whitening. “Germans? Nazis?”

“Our friend thinks so, and we believe he’s right. They are certainly not police officers from around these parts; my son has already checked.”

The Spaniard turned to Josette. “I hate Nazis, do you know that?”

“My grandmother told me,” Josette answered quietly, startled by the sudden fury in Inigo’s eyes.

“And did she tell you why?”

Josette shook her head.

“They killed my family in the Spanish Civil War, the fascists of General Franco and his Nazi supporters. We lived in a town called Guernica, have you heard of Guernica?”

“I’m sorry, no, I haven’t.”

“One day, everyone will know of Guernica. My brother and I were away fighting when the German Luftwaffe and the Italians, all Franco’s allies, they came and bombed the town. No warning. They killed hundreds of defenceless civilians. Children, old people, blown to pieces. My parents, and my sister too.”

He stared down at the knife clenched tightly in his hand.

Josette started to say something, but saw her grandmother give a slight shake of her head.

In the silence that followed, Josette’s thoughts turned to Paul. His father had died at the hands of the Nazis, and Josette knew that Paul’s constant fear was that his imprisoned mother had also been put to death.

An image of her brother, Venant, came into Josette’s mind. He had been killed fighting Nazi oppression. As she glanced across at her grandmother, Josette saw Odile wipe away a tear and knew that she too had been thinking of Venant.

Eventually Inigo lifted his eyes. “Then my brother was killed in the fighting. He was just a boy. When Franco’s soldiers closed in, many of us escaped across the Pyrenees into France.”

This time Josette felt she could speak. “And now people are escaping the same way, but going in the opposite direction, from France into Spain.”

“Escaping the Nazis,” Inigo said quietly. He sighed. “You know the camp at Rivel?”

“Yes, of course,” Josette said. She knew the internment camp only too well. It was the grim prison in which Jean-Pierre Dilhat had been incarcerated the previous year before escaping with the help of her father and Paul. But Jean-Pierre’s freedom was fleeting. The following day he sacrificed his own life to save his friends during the failed bid to cross the mountains.