Citadel (40 page)
On her way out, she stopped in front of the poster. Raoul’s face stared blindly at her. Stay away, she whispered under her breath, even though before she’d been desperate for him to come to Coustaussa.
‘Villainous-looking creature,’ a woman said.
‘Do you think so?’ replied Sandrine, keeping her voice steady.
She went to each of the shops in turn, then pushed her heavily laden bicycle home, past gardens filled with vegetables beneath wire cages guarded by old women. No one grew flowers any more, only food to eat. Past the electricity substation. The door was ajar, revealing the white porcelain shields protecting the connectors on the upper storey, like a row of upturned vases.
It was hotter now and there was little shade on the steepest part of the hill. Sandrine turned over in her mind the many things Monsieur Baillard had told her. While he was talking, she had accepted everything he said without question. Now, in the bright light of a summer’s morning, the whole conversation seemed like a dream.
A ghost army?
Of course she didn’t believe it was real, couldn’t believe it was real. But did he? Sandrine wasn’t sure.
Even after a few hours’ acquaintance, she understood how Monsieur Baillard gave the same weight to stories of antiquity as he did to those things that had happened yesterday or the day before that. But whatever he believed, the consequences of the hunt for the Codex, on both sides, were real enough.
She cleared the crest of the hill, then stopped and looked around, casting her eye to each of the four points of the compass. Rennes-les-Bains to the south-east, Couiza to the west, the turrets and towers of Carcassonne many kilometres to the north, out of sight. And ahead, Coustaussa. From this distance, everything looked as it always had. She’d been to Paris once, to Toulouse and to Narbonne, but no further than that. These were the foundations on which her life was built.
If Monsieur Baillard was right and the Nazis crossed the line, the tranquillity of the valley would be lost for ever. Of the Aude. She would not let that happen. She would fight to stop it happening.
‘Live free or die,’ she said, remembering the placard the old veteran had carried at the Bastille Day demonstration.
It seemed a lifetime ago. Sandrine understood what was at stake now. She understood what it meant to resist. Whether she was here in Coustaussa, or back in Carcassonne with Marianne and Suzanne. With Raoul.
Last night she had listened and listened to what Monsieur Baillard was telling her. Now her mind buzzed with questions, like flies in a jar, one question above all others. Monsieur Baillard had said the Codex had been called upon once before. More than a thousand years ago.
Was it true? And if it was, what had happened to the Codex over the intervening years? Lost again? Now to be found once more? Despite the heat of noon, Sandrine felt goosebumps prickling on her skin.
‘
Vivre libre ou mourir
,’ she repeated.
LIMOUX
R
aoul Pelletier ran his hands over his chin, uncomfortable in the heat. He’d not shaved since leaving Carcassonne because the beard and moustache disguised the shape of his face. It wasn’t much, but it was the best he could do, especially since he’d seen a poster asking for information, with a huge reward being offered. He’d been expecting it for weeks, was surprised that it was the first he’d seen. Although he looked different after three weeks of living rough, if someone put their mind to it, he’d be recognised. So far as he knew, at least there hadn’t been anything on the wireless since the end of July.
Raoul was sitting in the café by Les Halles in Limoux, with a clear view of the front door of the Hôtel Moderne et Pigeon. Local
résistants
used the hotel as a safe house and he had been told there was someone who might give him a ride south. The man he was looking out for was Spanish, a comrade of Ramón with whom he’d stayed in Roullens three weeks ago.
He had bought the morning edition of
La Dépêche
. It was a Pétainist publication, but it served his purpose. He flicked through the paper, glancing up at the door to the hotel, which remained stubbornly closed. As he looked back down, his attention was drawn by a
STOP PRESS
item on the inside back page.
TRAGIC CLIMBING ACCIDENT
It is with great regret that we report that the body of a local man, identified as Monsieur Antoine Déjean – originally of Tarascon – has been found in a gully to the north of the village of Larnat, in Ariège.
Raoul turned cold. From the moment he’d found Sandrine clutching Antoine’s necklace at the river, he had expected this. But the black and white reality of it still hit him.
Monsieur Déjean’s body was discovered by a poacher, who alerted the appropriate authorities. Retired Inspecteur Pujol, formerly of the gendarmerie in Foix, hypothesised that the young man had lost his footing and fallen. The extent of his injuries were such that it appeared he had died instantly some weeks previously. When asked if Monsieur Déjean might have been investigating the caves for some illegal purpose, Inspecteur Pujol replied in the negative. ‘Although it is the case that Lombrives caves and other adjacent sites have become the unfortunate focus for unscrupulous treasure-hunters and cultists, there is no evidence to suggest that Monsieur Déjean was involved with any such group.’
Raoul glanced up again. No one was going in or out of the hotel. He continued reading.
Monsieur Déjean, who was unmarried, was a resident of Carcassonne and worked for Artozouls, the hunting and fishing suppliers. The funeral will be held at ten o’clock on Wednesday 19 August at the Église de la Daurade, Tarascon. No flowers by request.
In his pocket, Raoul’s fingers tightened around the handkerchief containing the tiny bottle he’d retrieved from Antoine’s apartment. It had become an habitual action on his part, a talisman almost.
At last, he heard the door of the hotel open and a dark-haired man, matching the description of the man he was waiting for, came out. Raoul dropped the newspaper on the table, quickly crossed the street and fell into step beside him.
‘
Le temps est bouché à l’horizon
.’
The slightest nod, to indicate that the password had been heard and accepted.
‘Where do you need to go,
compañero
?’ the Spaniard replied, without breaking his stride.
‘Banyuls,’ Raoul began to say, then he stopped. The newspaper article changed things. He was now convinced that Leo Coursan – with Laval’s help – was responsible for Antoine’s abduction and murder. If he was right, Sandrine was in danger. His intention had been to stay as far away from her as possible, not to drag her into his situation. But now he realised he couldn’t leave.
‘On second thoughts, Coustaussa,’ he said.
‘I can take you to Couiza. Two kilometres from there?’
‘
Sí gracias
.’
The man nodded. ‘Red van at end of alley.
BONFILS
on the side. We leave in fifteen minutes.’
CARCASSONNE
‘Did you know about this, Laval?’ said Authié, pushing the copy of
La Dépêche
towards him.
‘I’ve seen it, sir.’
‘What the hell’s Bauer playing at? How could he be so incompetent as to dispose of the body where it would be found so soon?’
‘There have been storms in the Haute Vallée, perhaps that caused a mud slide. Disturbed the grave.’
Authié realised it was close to where de l’Oradore’s excavation had been three years previously. Was that deliberate or another unfortunate coincidence?
‘What’s Bauer got to say about it?’ he demanded.
‘I have not spoken to him,’ Laval said in a level voice.
Authié stared at his deputy, hearing something in his tone, then dropped his eyes back to the newspaper.
‘Who’s this Inspector Pujol?’
‘A retired local policeman.’
‘One of ours?’
Laval shook his head. ‘The opposite, sir. Sympathies are with the partisans.’
‘Why was he called rather than a serving officer?’
‘The locals trust him. They don’t like the authorities. A place like Tarascon, people stick to their own kind.’
‘Like the Middle Ages. It’s ridiculous,’ Authié snapped. He looked back at the article. ‘According to this, the death’s being treated as a climbing accident. Do people believe that?’
‘From what little I’ve been able to gather. Do you want me to go back to Tarascon, sir?’
Authié considered. ‘On balance, it’s a good idea,’ he said eventually. ‘I’ll put someone else on surveillance of the Vidal house for the time being. What’s happening there?’
‘It continues the same, sir. The tall woman, Suzanne Peyre, is often there. Mademoiselle Vidal spends most of her time at the Croix-Rouge in rue de Verdun, then returns home in the evenings. No sign of the younger girl or the housekeeper.’
‘Lucie Ménard?’
‘I haven’t seen her at all.’
Authié glanced again at the paper. ‘Go to Tarascon today, Laval. Report back as soon as you can. I intend to go myself on Wednesday, but I want information before that.’
‘Wednesday?’
‘The funeral,’ he said impatiently. ‘It will be a good opportunity to take the measure of things for myself.’ He paused again, then raised his eyes and looked at Laval standing on the other side of the desk. ‘As regards Bauer, I think the arrangement has run its course. Not until after Wednesday, but then I need you to act. You understand me?’
Laval met his gaze. ‘Yes, sir.’
COUIZA
The Tramontana was stirring up the dust outside the railway station when Raoul walked into Couiza. He couldn’t see any police checking papers, but even so he didn’t want to risk going into the station to ask for directions to Coustaussa. But road signs had been taken down in 1939, and he didn’t want to waste his time striking out in the wrong direction. He noticed the door to the tabac on the far side of the square was open.
There was a man in front of him complaining about the length of the queues in the post office. He turned, half knocked into Raoul, then frowned. He exchanged a look with the tobacconist, looked hard at Raoul, then left quickly. Raoul told himself not to read anything into it, it was just one of those things. Small towns like this, all strangers were treated with suspicion.
‘Do you have tobacco to buy?’ he said. ‘Cigarettes?’
‘Rations only.’
‘Not for cash?’
The tobacconist looked at him. ‘I can’t help.’
Raoul shrugged. ‘A box of matches anyway,’ he said, handing over a note. ‘And if you could point me in the direction of Coustaussa.’
The tobacconist looked at him. ‘New around here?’
‘Passing through.’
He came out from behind his counter. ‘Right out of the door. Long road with trees. You’ll see Coustaussa on the hill, left-hand side.’
The tobacconist stood in the doorway, watching him go. Raoul felt his eyes on the back of his neck. He looked back in time to see the man turn the sign on the door to
CLOSED
, leave the tabac and cross the square in the opposite direction.
Already Raoul regretted mentioning Coustaussa, but he told himself he was making something out of nothing. He found an unmade path running parallel to the main road running east. Bicycle tracks suggested someone had taken the same route earlier, a single line snaking up towards the village. He hadn’t seen a single patrol, but he’d be less visible away in this quiet neighbourhood. Small houses with neat back gardens, neither quite in the town nor properly in the countryside.
Raoul tried to bring Sandrine’s face to mind. She’d been his constant companion over the past three weeks, snapshots of their brief time together carried in his head like treasured photographs in an album. But today, it didn’t work. His memories were less strong than the twist of fear in his stomach. What if Coursan had already tracked Sandrine down in Carcassonne? His fault. What if she was in Coustaussa, but was horrified to see him? She’d had three weeks to regret the invitation, more than three weeks when anything might have happened.
In the distance, Raoul heard the thrum of an engine. His reactions sharpened. A car driving in the same direction he was walking. Thoughts about the future gave way to the needs of the present. He glanced around, but there was nowhere obvious to hide. Gardens, the open track, few trees for cover. Then he noticed, a little way ahead, a small, squat building, an electricity substation.
He sped up, covering the last few metres quickly, and stepped into the shadow of the building, moments before a police car appeared on the track behind him. Sending gravel skidding, the tyres crunching on the rough surface, disappearing in a cloud of dust on the road leading up to Coustaussa. Raoul leant back against the whitewashed wall, his heart thudding in his chest, remembering the sharp eyes of the customer in the tabac and the glance he’d exchanged with the owner. He’d no way of knowing whether they’d recognised him or simply reported him because he was a stranger in a town that did not welcome outsiders. He looked down at his clothes, dirty from the road, remembered his unshaven, sun-worn face.
Should he go on? The police car was heading in the same direction. Was he a coward to contemplate turning back or simply being prudent?
He looked back at the houses on the outskirts of Couiza, trying to decide what to do. Then he turned and looked along the empty road. There was a slight trace of dust still hanging in the air, whipped up by the tyres. The memory of sitting side by side in the garden of the rue du Palais came back to him. How when he’d described standing on the jetty in Banyuls, being too much of a coward to jump, Sandrine had said she thought it took more courage to go on than to give up.
He carried on walking.
COUSTAUSSA
‘
H
ow do you feel now?’ Sandrine said, joining Monsieur Baillard and Marieta on the terrace.
‘I would feel better if everyone stopped fussing,’ Marieta said, though she didn’t look like she really minded.
‘Doctor’s orders,’ Sandrine smiled. ‘We’re not going to let you lift a finger.’
