Death Ray (25 page)

Guards slouched in doorways, their faces blank with boredom, their rifles propped up against doors and windowsills. Others stood in small huddles, smoking and chatting. I recalled our training at Mulberry House. If there was trouble, if we needed to make a run for it, which way would I go? Could I weave between the stalls, hide beneath one, grab a bicycle and dash down a side street? My fear of capture made me look at everything with a very different eye.

Of the various items on our shopping list, the collodion was likely to pose the greatest difficulty. It wasn’t something people purchased very often. When applied to the skin, the syrupy liquid dries rapidly, leaving a crinkly residue. Perfect, according to Stanley Briggs, for ageing the skin or faking wounds and scars. Because it was used in some medicines, a pharmacy seemed our best bet, although our enquiries at the first three shops were met by despairing shakes of the head. Amélie knew of one more shop worth trying. It was a small pharmacy tucked away in one corner of the town square. With luck we’d be able to get the talcum powder there too.

As Amélie pushed open the shop door, a small brass bell tinkled above her head. At the same moment I spotted something in the square. A tall, skinny young man stepped out of a telephone kiosk, looked upwards and gave a blatant signal to someone. My Special Ops training told me that his nod was no accident, no
nervous
tic. He peered across the square. The expression on his face was odd; sharp, I thought, definitely focused, and maybe a little vengeful. Curious, I turned and looked in the same direction.

Some distance away a large trestle table had been set out in the shelter of a stone archway. Two German Wehrmacht officers were sitting behind it. Armed guards stood beside them. A small queue of men and women began gathering to their left, stretching out along the pavement. The young man by the kiosk glanced at his watch and then, thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets, hurried off into a side street. Something was going on. I just knew it. I peered up to where he’d signalled – the church and its ornate bell tower. At first I was blinded by the low sunlight, but gradually my eyes adjusted to the brightness. It was then I realized there was someone up there, in the tower, crouching between the stone pillars. Seeing him made me swallow hard. Whoever it was had a rifle! He carefully, purposefully, raised it to his shoulder. Then I realized I recognized him.
Pierre!
I fizzed with panic. Something terrible was about to happen. And trouble was the last thing we needed.

I ran into the pharmacy and closed the door. The bell tinkled again. Amélie was standing by the cash register. The pharmacist, a woman of about forty with greying hair and thick glasses poised precariously on the very tip of her nose, had already put a tin of talc in a paper bag resting on the counter. Amélie took the opportunity to stock up on supplies, asking for five large crepe bandages
which
ended up in the bag too. The pharmacist scratched the back of her head thoughtfully, however, when Amélie enquired about the collodion. My heart sank. Then, raising a finger as if she’d suddenly remembered something, she said she’d take a look out the back of her shop, just in case there was an old bottle gathering dust. I waited for her to disappear before speaking. ‘We’ve got to go,’ I said quietly, tugging gently on Amélie’s sleeve. ‘There’s going to be trouble here any minute.’

‘What are you talking about, Finn?’

‘Trust me,’ I said. ‘Pierre Truffaut’s out there and he’s about to do something he’ll regret. Put the money on the counter and let’s get out of here. Now!’

‘
Ah, bon!
’ came a shout from out the back of the shop. The pharmacist reappeared clutching a small brown bottle. ‘
Huit francs
,’ she declared, placing the bottle carefully into the bag.

Amélie dug into her purse and slowly began counting out the money.
Hurry up!
I fretted. I went to the door and peered out. A clock above the entrance to the town hall struck eleven. On the last clang, a car appeared at speed from a side street, its tyres screeching as it swerved round the corner and entered the square. There were two young men inside. It was too late to do anything. All I could do was stand and watch.

The car, a rusting, mud-encrusted grey Citroën that looked as if it had spent its life crossing fields and transporting bales of straw, slowed down as it approached the table under the archway. A machine gun appeared out of
the
passenger’s window. I heard someone scream. Five seconds later the gun’s magazine was empty, walls had been peppered with bullets and the two Wehrmacht officers were dead. Everyone in the queue had thrown themselves to the ground. The Citroën revved and its tyres squealed. The car accelerated in our direction. I glanced up and realized it was Pierre’s turn to act. His job was to give covering fire. As soldiers rushed into the road behind the car, lifted their rifles and took aim, Pierre tried picking them off, one by one. He was a cracking good shot, maybe even good enough to give Freya a run for her money. He didn’t waste a single bullet, either. But there were simply too many soldiers. Several turned their weapons towards the bell tower.

Save yourself, Pierre. You’ve done what you can. Get the hell out of there before they trap you
.

The Citroën, its engine howling in low gear, was still heading directly towards us. Everything was happening so fast. The car’s windscreen shattered and the driver slumped forward. A horrible lump formed in my throat as I sensed what was about to unfold. ‘Jesus! Run, Amélie!’ I yelled. Grabbing her hand, I pulled her towards the shop counter. Throwing ourselves over it, we landed in a heap on the other side. I reached up and snatched up the paper bag, and then cowered, tensing my whole body in anticipation. The pharmacist, realizing what was about to happen too, stepped backwards, pressing herself against the shelves of neatly arranged glass jars. She let out a stifled cry. Her
spectacles
fell from her nose, revealing eyes that were wide open with terror.

I heard the soft thud of tyres mounting the kerb. The sound reached my ears a split second before the Citroën ploughed through the shop window. The noise was deafening. The floor shuddered beneath me. Tiles fell from the ceiling. Bottles toppled from the shelves and smashed all round us. Fainting, the pharmacist slid to the floor. I rose to my knees and dared to peer over the top of the counter. There was a loud hiss amid the dust. Smoke billowed from the crumpled front of the car. A young man lay on the bonnet, on his back, his arms outstretched, his head twisted at an unnatural angle. The other young man, the driver, sat slumped over the wheel. Neither moved a muscle. I spotted soldiers running towards us.

Amélie stood up, saw the bodies and shrieked. ‘
Non! Claude! Philippe!
’

‘Pierre’s other two brothers?’ I asked.

‘
Oui
, Finn.’

‘Hell! Out the back way,’ I said. ‘Quickly. The Germans will arrest us otherwise. Just for being here.’

We crawled into the back of the shop and ran out through the rear door into a small yard. Once through a wooden gate at the end of the yard, we found ourselves in a narrow alley. We ran as fast as we dared. Amélie was limping slightly. There was a nasty shard of glass stuck in her right knee. Blood was dripping onto her shoe. ‘Stop a second,’ I said when I reckoned we were far enough away. ‘Give me one of those bandages.’

I knelt down, gently picked out the lump of glass, wiped the blood away and then frantically set about wrapping the bandage tightly round her leg. ‘There, that should hold until we get you back to the safe house,’ I said breathlessly. ‘Damn Pierre and his brothers. What were they thinking? They know their orders. No Resistance activities until Operation Death Ray has been completed.’ I ran my fingers through my hair in exasperation.

‘Can you really blame them, Finn?’ Amélie replied, flexing her leg and adjusting the knot I’d made in the crepe. ‘After what happened to their father.’

‘Yes, I can blame them,’ I snapped. ‘There’s a bigger picture, Amélie. More is at stake than one man’s revenge against another. Those idiots may have just jeopardized everything. And at least two of them are dead. What a waste. And God knows whether Pierre will get away from the church alive.’

We walked briskly through the streets. Glancing at my watch, I realized it was after half-past eleven. Freya was due to contact London at midday. Jacques was meeting her at the safe house a stone’s throw from the station. The Truffauts’ personal vendetta had complicated things and I reckoned Jacques needed to be informed without delay. There would be reprisals. The town would be swarming with soldiers hammering on doors and searching everywhere. The people of Rochefort would be taught a harsh lesson and made to pay dearly. Suspects would be arrested and interrogated. I wondered just how many innocents would be rounded
up
, lined up against a wall and shot. My fears also made me anxious for Freya. ‘Do you know the address of the safe house Freya’s using?’

‘
Oui
, Finn. It’s in the rue de la Gare. But remember, her name is Odette!’

Approaching a busy junction, I came to a decision. ‘We must go there. Jacques needs to know. We have to tell London the situation here is deteriorating.’

Many houses near the station had been boarded up. Breathless, we arrived at one end of the rue de la Gare. It was a long, arrow-straight road, the station visible at the far end, at least two hundred yards away. ‘The house is about halfway down on the left-hand side, Finn,’ said Amélie. ‘The one with the dark-green door.’

We’d taken barely a dozen steps when I heard ‘
Pssst!
’

It was Max. Crouching behind a low wall to our right, he looked scared. He held a finger to his lips and beckoned us to join him. We hurried across the road. ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked, dipping down behind the wall.

I began to explain what we’d just witnessed in the square but Max interrupted, his voice tense with anxiety, ‘See that fat man, Finn? Far end of the street. See him?’

Walking in our direction there was indeed a fat man wearing a long dark raincoat and broad-brimmed hat. Two things struck me as suspicious. One, he walked extremely slowly, and two, he repeatedly peered at his watch.

‘He’s Abwehr,’ Max whispered hatefully. ‘German Intelligence. I’m sure of it. He’s looking out for a transmitter.’

It was one minute before midday. Freya was meticulous. If her schedule, her
sked
, as it was known, required her to contact London at midday, she’d do her utmost to be right on time. ‘What can we do?’

‘Nothing except pray, Finn. Pray really hard,’ Max replied.

‘Where’s Loki? Did he enter the safe house with Freya?’

My question was met with a shake of Max’s head. He pointed across the road. Loki was pressed deep into a recessed doorway. I gasped in surprise. He was looking directly at me, frantically mouthing something. I couldn’t make out what. I gestured to him, encouraging him to risk crossing the road to join us. But he refused to budge.

‘And what about Jacques?’ I asked Max. ‘He was supposed to meet Freya here.’

‘I’ve not seen him, Finn. Of course, he might have got here before us. He might be inside too.’

‘Wait here. I’m going to talk to Loki.’ Carefully I rose to my feet and innocently wandered across the road.

Reaching the recess, Loki grabbed me and said, ‘It’s a disaster, Finn. Is that bastard still heading this way?’

‘Yes. Max thinks he’s Abwehr. Any ideas?’

We both knew the Germans were good at tracking down wireless operators. Often they used unmarked vans with directional aerials. But they had other
cunning
methods too. The fat men were one of them. Of course, they weren’t really fat at all. Beneath their raincoats, receivers were strapped to their stomachs. They walked the streets listening out, sometimes via headphones concealed beneath their hats, other times the signals registering on a dial disguised as a wristwatch. ‘We should deal with him, Finn. Are you armed?’

‘Maybe we should sit tight. Not make a move unless he goes inside the house. I’ve got a welrod and silencer. But it’s only one shot and hopelessly inaccurate. How about you?’

‘Colt revolver. No silencer though. We can’t just wait here.
We can’t!
’

‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Let’s slowly head towards him. If he goes inside the safe house, we’ll follow him and nobble him.’

‘Sounds good, Finn.’

It was the best plan I could think of in the panic of the moment. Gingerly we emerged from the recess and ambled along the pavement as casually as we could. If the fat man ventured into the house alone to make the arrest, we’d probably be able to save Freya. But the German Intelligence Services weren’t stupid. They were many things, mostly unpleasant things, but they definitely weren’t stupid. The fat man stopped outside the safe house, the house with the dark-green door. He took ten paces back, then five paces forward.
Shit!
I reached inside my coat, felt in the pocket for the loop of string connected to the welrod, grasped it tightly
and
prepared myself for the awful moment when I’d have to draw my weapon.

The fat man looked up at the house and studied the upstairs windows a moment, then lifted a whistle to his lips and blew on it long and hard. Troops appeared from side streets as if out of nowhere – I counted at least a dozen.
A trap!
My heart felt like it had stopped. My knees turned to jelly. We froze. In just seconds the house was surrounded. The door was battered down and soldiers rushed inside. Moments later Freya was dragged out and unceremoniously thrown down onto the pavement.

I pulled the string to raise the welrod, then grabbed its end and drew it out. Two soldiers roughly manhandled Freya to her feet. She looked dazed. Another thug emerged from the house carrying her suitcase containing the transmitter. Caught in the act! She had no defence, no way out. Interrogation and a death sentence awaited her. I wanted to call out, to shout that we were here, that we’d rescue her, but I didn’t. She glanced briefly in our direction but didn’t shout to us. Instead, she hurriedly looked the other way. I knew why. Despite her horror she wanted us to keep away, to abandon her, so we’d be safe.