Citadel (33 page)
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GAUL
COUZANIUM
AUGUST AD 342
A
rinius woke, stiff and cold, at first light. Dawn was just starting to give shape back to the land. The black outline of trees on the horizon, the purple silhouette of the hills, the pinpricks of colour of wild flowers in the garrigue, a world made clean and beautiful and bright. He had climbed further than he’d realised and was in fact much closer to the top of the hill than the valley below. The overwhelming force of the storm and the rain had refashioned the landscape, the torrent carving channels in the hillside, exposing mud and the shallow roots of trees. Drifts of sodden leaves and detritus covered the ground, and the undergrowth was sodden and tangled, twisted into strange shapes by the wind.
Arinius started to climb up towards the settlement. When he cleared the brow of the hill, he saw straight away that the curved buildings he’d glimpsed from the road were not houses at all, but rather a strange collection of stone huts. Each had a domed roof and a low opening, though no windows.
He ducked his head and went inside the first of them. The roof had collapsed. He tried the second, which was flooded. But the third was spacious and dry, with plenty of room. He removed his belongings from his bag – the cedarwood box and the writing materials – and laid everything out on the ground. Nothing was spoiled but he didn’t wish to run the risk of rot. He draped his cloak and his tunic over the dome of the hut. The air was cool, but it was dry and it would be hot again later.
Then Arinius sat down and looked out across the blue and green valley and waited for the sun to rise.
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TARASCON
AUGUST 1942
A
udric Baillard and Achille Pujol walked across the Place de la Daurade and stopped in front of the small terraced house where the Déjeans lived. Pujol lifted his hand and knocked.
‘Célestine,’ he said, removing his hat. ‘May we come in?’
‘You have news?’ she said quickly.
‘If we could come in,’ Pujol said.
The light faded from Célestine’s face. She nodded, and stood back to let them enter.
‘This is an old friend,’ he said, ‘Audric Baillard.’
Baillard saw Célestine take in his pale suit, the yellow handkerchief he wore always in his left breast pocket. With a jolt, he realised she had been expecting him.
‘Monsieur Baillard,’ she said.
Baillard took off his hat. ‘Madame Déjean.’
‘Is Pierre here?’ Pujol continued.
Célestine tore her gaze away from Baillard. ‘You have news,’ she said, more a statement than a question.
‘Célestine, please. If you could fetch Pierre,’ Pujol said.
Célestine led them down the narrow corridor. She gestured for them to enter the parlour, then went in search of her husband.
Baillard looked around the small room. Every surface was covered in framed photographs: a chubby boy in short trousers, holding two metal soldiers out towards the camera; Antoine in his Sunday best with his parents on La Fête-Dieu, the most important saint’s day celebrated in Tarascon; Antoine posing with a rope slung over one shoulder and climbing boots, making a thumbs-up sign; smiling and waving his
fascicule de mobilisation
papers in 1939. Baillard glanced at Pujol and saw that he was thinking the same thing. The room felt like a shrine already.
‘Look at this one, Audric,’ Pujol said, passing him a photograph in a black ash frame. He pointed to a soldier in uniform standing at the back of a group of eight young men. ‘That’s me.’ He was twenty-eight years younger, slimmer, with thick brown hair just visible beneath the rim of his regulation cap, but it was unmistakably Pujol. ‘And that’s Pierre Déjean at the front. A photographer went round all the villages that day.’
‘I remember it.’
‘We were so young,’ Pujol said, continuing to stare at the black and white image. ‘Went off so pleased with ourselves, cocks of the walk. Women throwing flowers, cheering us like we were heroes. Heads stuffed full of patriotic nonsense. So much mud. And the woods, trees all shot to pieces, bark, trunks shattered. Never saw anything like it.’
‘No,’ Baillard said quietly.
His friend sighed, then gently put the frame back in its place. ‘Me and Pierre Déjean, we were the only two who made it back. Thought we’d be home in time for Christmas. Remember?’
‘I do.’
‘Different this time.’
‘Yes.’
Pierre burst into the room. ‘You have news about Antoine?’
Baillard watched Pujol revert to his former role. Gone was the nostalgia of seconds before and in its place, a steady and reassuring authority.
‘You’ve found him,’ Célestine said in a dull voice.
Pujol nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’
Pierre slumped in a chair, his hands hanging between his knees. ‘Where?’
‘In the mountains. Not far from Larnat.’
‘He fell?’
‘It’s too soon to say,’ Pujol said.
Baillard drew his breath. ‘You have my condolences, Sénher Déjean, Na Déjean. I knew your son. He was a courageous man.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Guillaume Breillac has taken his body to the church.’
Pierre nodded, but without looking up. Célestine, despite her grief, raised her eyes to Baillard’s and looked at him. Baillard was certain she had something she wished to say. Equally sure that she would not speak in front of her husband or Pujol.
Baillard stood up and gave a small bow. ‘We will intrude on your grief no longer.’
Pujol glanced at him in surprise, but also got up. As the quartet moved towards the door, he managed to draw Pujol aside.
‘I need to talk to Célestine alone.’
Pujol gave him an inquisitive look, but nodded and immediately strode forward and put his arm around Pierre’s shoulder.
‘I was looking at the photograph of us all,’ he said, somehow turning Déjean around and keeping him in the room. Baillard could see Pierre was reluctant to be taken aside, but his natural courtesy kept him there, long enough for Baillard to leave the room with Célestine.
Sure enough, rather than turning left towards the front door, she turned right and beckoned him to follow. She led him to the kitchen, then closed the door behind them.
Baillard felt the short hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. ‘Do you have something for me?’
Célestine nodded. ‘He told me you might come. A man in a pale suit, yellow handkerchief. That I wasn’t to give it to anyone else, tell no one else. Not even his father.’
‘Go on.’
‘Pierre is a good man,’ she said, ‘but he doesn’t see what’s under his nose. He doesn’t think I know what Antoine was doing.’
She gave a broken smile. Baillard’s heart went out to her, understanding that she had already accepted the worst, since the day her son failed to arrive for her birthday three weeks ago.
‘As if I wouldn’t be proud of him.’
‘He had a great sense of honour,’ Baillard said simply.
‘He told me he was working for you, Monsieur Baillard. Oh, not your name of course, but how to recognise you. And that if anything happened to him . . .’ She stopped, a catch in her voice, then steadied herself. ‘That if anything happened to him, I should give you this.’
Célestine went to the sink, drew back the green and white piece of fabric that concealed the shelf beneath and pulled out an open wooden box filled with cleaning materials. Brushes, a tin of polish, a bottle of vinegar and another containing liquid ammonia.
‘Pierre would never think to look here,’ she said. ‘It seemed the safest place.’
She put her hand into the box and lifted out a white envelope. She handed it to Baillard, then returned the cleaning box to its home under the sink.
Baillard carefully opened the envelope, hardly daring to hope it could be the map itself. Straight away, disappointment rushed through him. It was simply a brief scribbled note, clearly written in a hurry.
‘When did Antoine give this to you?’
‘A month ago.’ She dropped her head. ‘He said he now knew where to look.’
‘Did he say why he didn’t come to me in person?’
‘He thought he was being watched. He didn’t want to lead them to you.’
Guilt pinched at Baillard’s heart. ‘Thank you, Célestine,’ he said.
She hesitated. ‘Antoine was killed, wasn’t he? Not a climbing accident.’
Baillard looked at her proud face. Her expression unwavering, already resigned to loss, but with an infinitesimal flickering of steel in her eyes.
‘Monsieur Baillard,’ she said, reproach in her voice.
‘Yes.’
She put her hand to her heart, struggling, he could see, to contain her grief.
‘Did he suffer?’ she asked, needing to know. Not wanting to know.
More than anything, Baillard wanted to spare her the dreadful knowledge of her son’s final moments. But he understood, more than most, that it was better to know the truth, however painful or hard, than to live with uncertainty. Always wondering what might or might not have happened. Doubt ate away at the soul, left holes in the heart.
‘Your son was a man of courage,’ he said again. ‘He did not betray his friends.’
Célestine met his steady gaze. ‘Thank you.’
Overwhelmed with pity, Baillard put his hand on her shoulder.
‘
Desconsolat
,’ he said. ‘I am so very sorry.’
Célestine nodded, then stepped away and raised her chin. ‘Don’t let it be that he died for nothing, Monsieur Baillard. Do you hear? Make his death count. It is the only way to bear the loss.’
‘
W
hat did Célestine want?’
The sky was black and they hurried across the square, collars up against the wind. Baillard looked up at the glowering clouds skimming the mountains opposite.
‘Antoine left a note for me in her safe keeping.’
‘Why the hell didn’t she tell me that two weeks ago?’ Pujol said.
‘She gave her word she would tell no one, not even her husband, unless something happened to him.’
‘What’s it say?’
‘That he thought he was being followed.’ He paused. ‘Rahn’s writings were often obscure, deliberately ambiguous, so when he wrote about a skeleton key, it was assumed it was symbolic, allegorical even. Déjean, it seems, gave out that it was real, to throw his enemies off the trail.’
Pujol’s face darkened. ‘Are you telling me he was murdered for something that doesn’t even exist?’
For a moment, both men were silent. At their back, purple storm clouds moved fast across the blackening sky.
‘You have had Antoine taken to which church?’ Baillard said.
‘La Daurade,’ Pujol replied. ‘Madame Saint-Loup will lay him out, make him . . . make it possible for Célestine and Pierre to see him.’ He paused. ‘And it will keep him away from the police station – it’s hard to know who to trust, è?’
They walked a few steps further, then Pujol stopped again.
‘What I don’t understand is why Antoine approached you in the first place, Audric.’
‘I approached him. There are events in the past – the far distant past – that mean I have for many years kept a close watch on these mountains. Lombrives, the Pic de Vicdessos, further west to Montségur and the Pic de Soularac. I observed what Rahn and Antoine were doing. When Rahn left, Déjean went to university, little happened. However, when he was demobbed, he made repeated trips to the mountains.’
‘You think Rahn sent him something before he died?’
‘Yes, or information that made Antoine reconsider something he had overlooked before,’ Baillard answered. ‘When I was sure of where Antoine’s sympathies lay – given his friendship with Rahn, I had to be certain he had not been coaxed into the same attitude of mind – I approached him. Déjean was clever, he could read both Latin and Greek. He told me about the map and that he thought he knew where to find it.’
‘But he didn’t tell you where it was?’
Baillard smiled. ‘He liked to keep his secrets close. I asked him several times, but he always said he would bring it to me as soon as he had it.’ His face clouded over. ‘I encouraged him, Achille, and I greatly regret it.’
‘You can’t blame yourself, Audric. He knew what he was letting himself in for.’
‘I feel responsible.’
‘The men who murdered him are responsible,’ Pujol said firmly. ‘Do you know who they are?’
‘No,’ said Baillard. ‘But I will find out.’
They walked the last few metres to the house quickly and in silence. Pujol took his latch key from his pocket.
‘Find out who killed him. I mean it, Baillard,’ he said, his voice cracking with anger. ‘Find out who did such things to him. He died badly.’
The wind had fallen, but now the sky began to growl and shudder. Warning shots of thunder, several minutes apart, ricocheted between the mountains and the hollows of the valleys. Baillard looked up at the Pic de Vicdessos, now shrouded in angry purple clouds.
‘Not so hard to believe in Sénher Breillac’s ghosts now,’ he said quietly.
CARCASSONNE
‘
G
hosts?’
Leo Authié tapped the razor on the side of the basin, then put it on the glass shelf. He patted his face with the towel, then ran his hand over his skin before pulling out the plug. He disliked interrogations, the stench of fear and stupidity. He felt filthy the moment he walked into the prison. The water drained, leaving a skim of grey foam and dark bristles around the rim of the porcelain.
‘Yes, sir,’ came Laval’s voice from the other room.
Authié straightened his tie and collar, then walked out of the tiny closet into his office.
‘You’re saying operations have been suspended because of ghosts?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Authié had only been back in Carcassonne for twenty-four hours but already the heat was getting to him. The temperature had been pleasant in Chartres, and the time he’d spent there, as the guest of François-Cecil de l’Oradore, had been both informative and productive. For those prepared to work within the new realities, daily life under occupation was comfortable. Between de l’Oradore and his German friends, there was a natural alliance. They were men of similar views and attitudes.
