Classic Spy Novels 3-Book Bundle (71 page)

The column left the city on the RN 51. By the side of the road, the stone markers said SEDAN–86. Eighty-six kilometers, Casson thought. From here, you could drive to the border in an hour.

The crowd beside the road through Rethel was nothing like the one in Rheims. This crowd was watchful, and silent, and there were no garlands for the tank guns. After that, the villages were empty. There was no mayor, nobody waving, nobody. They had locked their houses and gone away. When Casson turned off the engine, he could hear the distant rumble of artillery.

On the
Route Nationale
there were refugees who had come south from Belgium. It looked the same, Casson thought, as the newsreels he’d seen of Poland in September of 1939. Exactly the same. To the question
what should be taken?
every family had its own answer—the bed, the painting, the clock. But then, days later, it didn’t matter. Exhaustion came, the treasures were too heavy, and into the fields they went.

Rough faces. Flemish, reddened, coarse to French eyes—the thick-handed cousins from the north, pikemen of a hundred armies in wars that lasted a century. The column slowed, then stopped. A nun came to Casson’s truck and asked for water. He gave her what he had, she took it away, shared it out among the refugees sitting by the roadside, then brought back the empty bottle. “God bless you, monsieur,” she said to him.

“Where are you from, sister?”

“The village of Egheze.” Then she leaned closer and whispered, “They burned the abbey to the ground,” her voice shaking with anger while she held his arm in a steel grip. Then she said, “Thank you for your kindness,” and walked away, back to the people by the side of the road.

The column stopped at dusk. From the Ardennes forest, up on the Belgian border, the guns thundered and echoed. The tank crews sat on a stone wall, smoked cigarettes, and drank wine from a brown bottle. There was a reservist with them, a man with a double chin and a hopeful smile. For a long time nobody spoke, they just listened to the artillery. “Well,” the man said, “it seems the Boche have come a long way south.” The tank crewmen grinned and exchanged glances. “He’s worried we won’t win,” one of them said. They all laughed at that. “Well,” said another, “one never knows.” That was even funnier.

After a moment the first one said, “Ah, my little
patapouf
.”
Fatty,
he’d called him, but gently, with the tenderness that very hard people sometimes show very soft people. “You have a day or two left to live,” he said. “You better take a little more of this.” He handed over the bottle. The man drank, then wiped his lips with the back of his hand and made an appreciative face to show how good the wine was.

A dispatch rider on a motorcycle picked up the day’s film. Then Casson followed the Peugeot on a steep, narrow road that wound down to the banks of a river. A series of tight curves—it took Casson four moves to maneuver the truck through the final hairpin.

He turned off the ignition, then sat still for a long time. A tiny village, completely deserted, the people fled or sent away. A silent, cobbled street; on one side the river, on the other a few old buildings, crumbling, leaning together, ivy and wild geranium growing up the stone corners and over the tops of the doorways. In the silver moonlight the water and the stone were the same color. A low hill rose above the tile roofs to a wall masked by shrubbery, then Lombardy poplars rustled in the breeze. Then the stars.

Captain Degrave walked over from the Peugeot and appeared at the window of the truck. “There’s a hotel up the street,” he said. “The Hotel Panorama. We were supposed to billet there, but the colonial troops have it.”

Casson had seen them on the road earlier that day; Algerian infantry and Vietnamese machine-gun squads. “I can sleep in the truck,” he said.

“Yes,” Degrave said. “You might as well.”

Casson lay across the seat, listening to the river—the wash of the water moving along the stone embankment—and the cicadas. He turned on his side and fell asleep.

He had a powerful dream, a dream of lost love found again. His heart swelled with happiness. The woman sat across from him—their knees almost touched—and spoke in whispers, as though people were nearby and could hear them.

“That was love,” she explained. “We were in love.”

He agreed, nodded, their eyes met, they longed to hold each other but it was a public place. “We can’t let it go again,” she said.

“No.”

“We can’t.”

He shook his head. If they let it go again it would be gone forever.

He woke up. The guns had stopped, there was just the river and the insects, loud on a summer night.

They worked hard the next day. Degrave started out just as the sun was coming up. They traveled along the river, through a burned village. Casson saw signs in Flemish, so they were actually over the border, in Belgium. They drove for a long time, the roar of the tank engines was deafening, the smell of gasoline and scorched oil hung thick in the morning air. At Degrave’s signal he pulled to one side. Meneval cranked up the camera until the spring was tight, then they filmed the column—tanks coming over a hill, bouncing on their treads in a cloud of dust. They filmed the Algerians on the march, their faces dark and sweating, and the Vietnamese machine gunners, carrying spare barrels and steel boxes of ammunition.
Moving up to battle,
somewhere in Belgium.

They drove and filmed all day, then stopped in a forest, slept, ate some salted beef and lentils from ration tins. The officers waited for darkness, then ordered the column to move forward. The night was black and very warm. Casson bit his lip as he fought the wheel and shifted gears, dazed from the noise and the heat, close to exhaustion. To his left, on a wooded hillside, a flash lit up a grove of pine trees and the sound of a hollow thump came rolling down the hill, audible above the whine of the engine. What was it? But of course he knew what it was. Fascinated, he stared at the sideview mirror, a small fire flickered at the center of the dark glass, then the road curved and it was gone. Directly ahead of him, the silhouette of a tank’s turret gun traversed back and forth.

A soldier ran in front of him and waved for him to slow down. A group of men, shadows, moved restlessly around something on the ground. Casson saw one white face turned suddenly toward him, the eyes were wide with fright. Then an officer with a swagger stick swept it violently in the direction the column was headed
—move,
move—
and Casson stepped on the gas. Another flare on the hillside. Then a flash blinded him. He took a hand from the wheel and pressed his eyes. A loud crack. Followed by a gentle patter as twigs and dirt rained down on the metal roof of the cab.
They’re trying to kill you, Jean-Claude.
The idea was an affront, he clenched his teeth and gripped the wheel harder. Two officers stood by a halted tank. After he’d gone past, one of them ran to catch up with him and banged on his door. “Stop! Is that gasoline in the back?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well then, back the truck up. We need it.”

Casson shifted into reverse, rolled back until he was even with the tank. A commander climbed out of the hatch, then vaulted to the ground. “That’s French fire!” he shouted. “Idiots! Clowns! What are they doing, shooting up here?”

“I assure you that it is not French fire, Lieutenant.” From his insignia, Casson could seee he was a major.

“What, Belgian? English?”

“No.”

Two soldiers wrestled a drum of gasoline to the edge of the truck, then Casson helped them to lower it onto its side. One of them attached a hose to the barrel and ran the other end into the tank’s fuel pipe. Overhead, the sound of fabric ripping and the top of a tree whipped like a rag in a hurricane. Gasoline sloshed on Casson’s shoes. The major had a lit cigarette in the corner of his mouth. “Careful there, you.” An aristocrat, talking to his groom, Casson thought. The major stepped back, his high boots supple and glistening. This was still the cavalry, the hulking tanks were simply machines they were forced to use.

A staff car came speeding through the column and skidded to a stop. A junior officer leaped out, ran up to the major and saluted. “Major Mollet, sir. The general’s compliments. Why are we under fire?”

“It is German artillery.”

“Sir.”

The officer ran back to the car. The gasoline drum was empty, Casson started to screw the cap back on the opening as the soldiers coiled the hose. From the car, an angry shout. Then the back door flew open. The junior officer ran around to that side and was joined by the driver. Casson looked down, afraid to stare. At the car, a polite struggle was under way—a muttered curse, a loud whisper. At last they managed to extricate the general from the backseat. He was enormously fat, his breath sighed in and out as he walked over to the major. The major saluted. “General Lebois, sir.”

“Mollet.” The general touched the brim of his hat with a forefinger. “What’s going on here?”

Two more explosions on the hillside. In the light, Casson could see the general’s skin, a web of broken purple veins on his cheeks.

“The Wehrmacht, sir.”

“They can’t be this far south.”

“Respectfully, sir, I believe they are.”

“No, it’s the damn English. All excited for no reason at all and shooting in the dark.”

“Sir.”

“Send a motorcycle courier over there. Somebody who speaks English.”

“Yes, sir.”

A shell landed on the road, about three hundred yards ahead of them. A truck had been hit. As it started to burn, there were shouts of “get water,” and “push it off the road.” Casson could see dark shapes running back and forth. The general growled, deep in his chest, like a dog that doesn’t want to move from its place on the rug.

The major said, “Perhaps it would be faster if we fired back.”

“No,” the general said. “Save the ammunition. Waste not, want not.”

“Very good, sir,” the major said.

Casson returned to his truck. A glance in the mirror, he could see the two aides, trying to get the general back in his car. Casson moved up the column, working his way around tanks, tapping his horn when people got in the way. It was slow, difficult work, he never stopped shifting gears. He had to wait while one tank attempted to push a second off the road. It had been hit and was on fire, orange flames and boiling black smoke. By the light of the fire Casson could read the name
Loulou
stenciled on its turret.

Dawn. The sky pale, swept with the wisps of white scud that marked the high wind blowing in from the Channel.

The road to the fort on the heights of Sedan worked its way around the edges of the city, then climbed past plowed fields and old forest. At the gate to the fort, the Peugeot was waved through but Casson was stopped. The sentries were drunk and unshaven. “What brings you here?” one of them said.

“We’re making movies.”

“Movies! You know Hedy Lamarr?”

“Dog dick,” said another. “Not those kinds of movies.
War
movies.”

“Oh. Then what the hell are you doing up here?”

The second man shook his head, walked over to the truck and offered Casson a bottle through the window. “Don’t let him get to you,” he said. “Have some of this.”

Casson raised the bottle to his lips and drank. Sharp and sour. The man laughed as he took the bottle back. “Come and see us, squire, after this shit’s done with.”

The hard Parisian sneer in the voice made Casson smile. “I will.”

“You can find us up in Belleville, at The Pig’s Ass.”

“See you then,” Casson said, shoving the clutch in.

“Red front!” they called after him.

Fortress at Sedan!

Raising and saluting the flag, morning reveille played on a bugle. Domestic life in the barracks—washing clothes, shining boots. Here are
the cooks, preparing breakfast for the hungry poilus. A cannon, the
famous French 75, is aimed out over the Meuse valley. A vigilant sentry keeps watch with binoculars—no Germans yet, but we’re ready for
them when they come.

Captain Degrave had an old friend serving with an artillery regiment and the gunners fed them breakfast. Casson ached from the driving, he was filthy with oily soot, and he wanted to shave more than anything else in the world, but the food seemed to bring him back to life. The gunners were countrymen from the Limousin. They’d stewed some hens in a huge iron kettle, added spring onions and wild garlic from the pastures outside the fort, found the last of the winter carrots in an “abandoned” root cellar, added Tunisian wine, a lump of fat, and a fistful of salt, then served it smoking hot in a metal soup plate. Afterward he sat back against a stone wall and had a hand-rolled cigarette stuffed with pipe tobacco. Maybe the world wasn’t as bad as it seemed.

It was strange, he thought, to be suddenly pulled from one life and dropped down into another. In Paris it was a May morning, Marie-Claire and Bruno probably making love by the open window that looked out over the Bois de Boulogne. She was, he recalled, at best obliging about it, she really didn’t like to do it in the morning; she had to be courted. And then—a little Marie-Claire punishment—she wouldn’t take off her nightgown. She’d pull it up to her chin, then stick her tongue out, saying that if you insisted on making love like a peasant, well then by God you could just make love like a peasant. That was, at least, how she started out. As always with Marie-Claire, things got better later.