Citadel (25 page)
‘No loose ends, you said.’
Authié stared at him. ‘What are you saying, Laval? Are you telling me he’s dead?’
‘Yes, sir.’
He dropped the matches back on the desk. ‘You killed him?’
‘To prevent him talking.’
‘Why the hell didn’t you say so sooner?’
‘I was answering your questions. You asked me about Blum.’
‘Sanchez’s death can’t be traced back here?’
‘It will be written up as a knife fight, communists brawling amongst themselves. There’re a lot of Spanish workers in the quartier de la Gare.’
Authié smoked half the cigarette in silence, then flicked the remainder out of the window. He watched it drop to the pavement below, then turned back to face the room.
‘For your sake, Laval, you’d better be right.’
Authié went back to his desk and opened the top drawer.
‘Is my transport into the
zone occupée
arranged?’
‘The car will be here at midday, sir.’
‘Good.’
‘How long will you be gone?’
Authié shot him a sharp look. ‘What business is it of yours, Laval?’
‘I only wanted to be sure of my orders in your absence.’
‘You know what I want you to do. I want to know what Pelletier found in Déjean’s apartment.’
For an instant Authié saw the dislike in Laval’s eyes, but then the shutters came down again.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said in a dead voice. ‘Do you want me to keep a watch on Bauer and operations in Tarascon as well?’
Authié hesitated. He did want to know what Bauer was doing, but over the past few days Laval had made mistakes. This situation required subtlety.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Concentrate on finding Pelletier.’
ROULLENS
O
nce the patrol had passed, Raoul climbed out of the deep ditch where he’d concealed himself. Every siren, every green flash of a
panier à salade
, set his pulse racing. By this time, he had no doubt, posters with his face slapped on them would be plastered all over Carcassonne, denouncing him as a murderer, a fugitive. His situation was desperate. If the police caught him, he knew they’d shoot on sight. He glanced along the route de Limoux in both directions. Only when he was sure the road was empty, did he emerge and carry on walking. The hope he’d felt when he was with Sandrine had gone. Now, he felt hunted.
Raoul had taken an indirect route west out of Carcassonne, doubling back on himself so if anyone did report seeing him, it would be hard for Laval to pinpoint precisely where he was heading. His destination was the village of Roullens, some seven kilometres to the south-west of the town. One of Bruno’s former comrades in the International Brigade, Ramón, had family there and Raoul was hoping they’d let him stay for a night or two. He was gambling that Laval – and Coursan – would expect him to try to get as far as possible, as quickly as possible. By staying closer to Carcassonne, Raoul hoped to buy himself a little time while he worked out what the hell he was going to do in the long run. He had no idea if the plan would work, but he couldn’t think of a better one.
The pretty country road to Roullens was deserted, but birdsong filled the air and the sun was warm on his face. Raoul passed the beautiful and imposing Château de Baudrigues, its tranquil green parkland and elegant white façade glimpsed through the trees a welcome sight after the tense grey streets of Carcassonne. For a moment, he was tempted to go into the domaine. Sleep for an hour or two in the deep shade of the woods. But he had a memory Baudrigues had been requisitioned at the beginning of the war, and he didn’t know if it was still in use or had been handed back to the owners. There was no sense taking the risk.
Raoul kept walking. He wondered if Sandrine was thinking of him as he was thinking of her. He remembered her tumbling black hair, the feel of it between his fingers, and her bright, sharp eyes. He wondered if she had spoken to her sister, and if she had, what had been said. He hated that every step was taking him one step further away from the rue du Palais. Most of all, he hated the fact that with a murder charge hanging over him, he would never be able to go back.
Behind him on the road, he heard an engine. His thoughts scattered and he immediately stepped out of sight, watching as the vehicle came into view. When it was closer, he could see it was a blue Simca truck. Local, not military, he thought. A safe bet. Hoping he was right, Raoul stepped back out on to the road and raised his arm.
CARCASSONNE
L
eo Authié faced the west door of the cathédrale Saint-Michel and ran his hand over the battered stonework. He was pleased to see the damage wasn’t too extensive. At least, Laval had carried out those orders effectively.
He went inside. Although there was evidence of the explosion, in the layer of white dust that covered the hymnals and votive candles for sale on the table, the calm and tranquillity of the cathedral was unaffected.
Authié dipped his finger into the
bénitier
of holy water and made the sign of the cross on his forehead. For a moment, he allowed the burden of his responsibilities to lift. Here, he felt certain of his mission. Here, everything was unequivocal. Absolute.
‘The cathedral’s closed.’
Authié looked in the direction of the voice and saw a charwoman mopping the flagstone tiles. He ignored her and walked up the nave, pausing only to make obeisance, then strode to the confessional.
‘Hey, didn’t you hear what I said?’ she called after him.
Authié walked round to the far side, pulled back the curtain and peered inside. It was empty.
‘Where’s the priest?’ he said, his voice echoing in the cavernous stone spaces.
‘I told you, the cathedral’s closed. Come back on Sunday.’
Authié walked back towards her, sharp heels, sharp eyes. She held her ground.
‘Get out,’ he said.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who are you to talk to me like that?’ she said. ‘See the mess they’ve made? I’ve got to get things straight.’
Authié put his hand to his breast pocket and produced his identification.
‘Do as you’re told.’
The char peered at the card, and Authié saw her knuckles tighten on the handle of the mop. Without another word she picked up her pail and walked back towards the small room behind the choir.
Authié stepped into the pew third from the front on the left-hand side. As he waited, he let his gaze move over each of the high side chapels in turn. He looked at the soaring stained-glass windows dedicated to St Bernard and St Benedict and at the unlit thick tallow candles on the high altar. All of it spoke of the magnificence of grace, the power of God.
The bells in the tower struck the half-hour. He glanced behind him, but the west door remained firmly closed. The car to take him north was ordered for midday.
His thoughts returned to Erik Bauer. Authié knew Bauer had no interest in the Codex other than to placate his masters in Berlin. The ambitions of the Reich were writ large in its headlong acquisition of everything and anything.
Authié considered the Nazi attempts to extirpate God from civil life both childish and pointless. He believed in a theocracy. His mission was to re-establish God at the heart of daily life. The absolute rule of religious law and obedience to the Church. His God was the God of the Old Testament, a God of judgement and wrath and punishment for those who transgressed the laws. Not a God of light or tolerance or one who postulated the equality of all men.
He believed the time was at hand for Europe to return to Christian rule. A new crusade against the Jews and the Moslems, any who refused to accept the one true faith. Those who had turned their faces away, as well as those who supported them. Authié had ensured that clerics of his rigorous persuasion were appointed to the key positions in the diocese, although he’d not yet been able to get rid of Abbé Gau. He’d made it impossible for Jewish businesses to continue to thrive, made sure that the schools of Moslem learning were shut down. He had done everything he could to turn the local population against anyone not prepared to return to the waiting arms of the Church.
To start with, his strategy had worked. The majority of Carcassonnais were inclined to put their trust in Pétain. They disliked Hitler and his Nazi party, but they wanted their sons, their husbands, their brothers returned from German POW camps and so were prepared to see Vichy work with Berlin to achieve that.
But signs were that ordinary citizens were becoming impatient. As the stringencies of rationing had begun to bite and fewer POWs than promised had been repatriated to France, views were changing. The endless queues and checkpoints, the lack of freedom to travel over the line or communicate with relatives in the north: citizens were starting to criticise and question whether the ‘
voie de collaboration
’ was working to their advantage. The churches were still empty and time was running out. Authié knew the status quo would not hold for very much longer.
He needed to find the Codex. It was a heresy, a proscribed text. If the authority ascribed to those verses was to be believed, the man who possessed it could be a modern-day Joshua, before the walls of Jericho, powerful and invincible. But Authié would not make use of it. His faith was strong enough to resist such temptation. He would, of course, destroy it, in accordance with the church’s wishes.
At last, Authié heard the creak of the door and the scrape of the wood on the stone steps. He did not turn and he did not react, but waited and listened as the footsteps came closer, closer until they stopped. The man stepped into the far end of the pew and knelt down.
‘I came as soon as I got your message,’ he said.
Authié pushed the hymn book along the wooden rail. The sepia border of a hundred-franc note just visible between the pages.
‘Fournier, I have a job for you.’
S
andrine walked across the Pont Marengo towards the mainline station. The streets were oddly quiet for a weekday morning, as if Carcassonne itself was waiting to see what the day might hold. She was pleased Marianne had let her come, but her past ignorance of the true state of affairs had made her confident and bold. Now, she was scared. She expected at every moment to be stopped and challenged.
‘Where do we go?’ she asked.
‘Just do what I do,’ Marianne replied.
There were hardly any passengers, but there were scores of police checking the papers of anybody trying to go in or come out of the railway station. Sandrine hoped Raoul was already many kilometres clear of Carcassonne.
The officers checked their
cartes d’identité
in silence, then waved them through to Marianne’s Croix-Rouge colleagues who were already on the platform. As well as food and drink, they had blankets, various bits and pieces of clothing, a few pairs of men’s shoes and, oddly, a pile of spectacles.
‘This is my sister, Sandrine,’ Marianne said.
Everyone was friendly, though quiet. Sandrine said her hellos. A woman in a broad-brimmed straw hat smiled back, another nodded and handed Sandrine a pail of water and three tin cups. Marianne picked up a
panier
that contained medical supplies: bandages and iodine swabs and sticking plasters.
‘How many are we expecting?’ Marianne asked.
‘Originally we were told twenty prisoners would be deported to camps in the Ariège today,’ said a tall, dignified woman in uniform. ‘But after yesterday’s arrests, I’m expecting more.’
On the way from the rue du Palais, Marianne had explained that the Red Cross was allowed to see the prisoners on humanitarian grounds only. They were not allowed to intervene or talk to them about the charges against them, discuss politics or anything else, otherwise they would be forbidden access in the future. All they could do was to try to make the men’s journey less uncomfortable. Still surprised that Marianne had let her come in the first place, Sandrine hadn’t wanted to admit she was nervous about what she might see.
‘How long before the prisoners get here?’ she asked.
Marianne shrugged. ‘It could be soon, might not be until the end of the afternoon. They always get us here much earlier than necessary.’
‘What’s the point in that?’
Marianne gave a tired smile. ‘To make it as difficult as possible. The authorities have to allow the Croix-Rouge to monitor the situation, but they’d prefer it if we didn’t. Keeping us waiting for hours, it’s just one way to put people off. Lots of the women have children, can’t get away for so long.’
Sandrine noticed how deep the worry lines around her sister’s eyes were and again felt stupid at how she’d managed to miss the signs of the burden Marianne had been under. Not only the work itself, but also the strain of keeping up appearances. Ensuring that life seemed to be carrying on as usual. Sandrine wondered if she’d have the courage to do the same. To risk her life for the sake of people she didn’t even know.
‘Where are they being sent?’ she said, talking to keep her nerves under control.
‘To internment camps in Ariège and Roussillon,’ Marianne replied.
‘And then? Do they stay there?’
‘It depends on the charges against them,’ she said. ‘Those classified as undesirables or enemy aliens will be sent over the line to camps in the north.’ She hesitated. ‘Perhaps even into Germany, I’m not sure. There are lots of stories we’ve not been able to verify yet.’
The sound of the guard shouting disrupted their conversation. The sisters looked round to see the train driver leaning out of the cab of the engine.
‘Looks like they’re coming,’ Marianne said. ‘They walk the prisoners from the gaol on the route de Narbonne.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Some of them will try to give you letters, trinkets to pass on. We’re not supposed to take them, but if the guards don’t see, it’s all right. It’s a great comfort to them, but we only get a few minutes to hand over clothes or shoes to those who need them and to check they are fit to travel before they’re put on the train, so don’t get caught up with one person for too long.’
‘And if someone’s not fit to travel?’ Sandrine asked. ‘What do we do then?’
