Citadel (64 page)

In the bed, Raoul stirred and shifted position, though he did not wake. Sandrine looked down at him, astonished to see how open and trusting his face was in sleep, despite everything he had done and seen. The way he lived in the mountains.

‘
Mon còr
,’ she whispered.

Even those quietest of words were enough to wake him. Straight away, Raoul was alert. Eyes open, twisting round, his hand reaching for the gun he’d placed on the floor beneath the bed.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.’

His eyes focused on her, then immediately his expression changed and he smiled.

‘You’re back,’ he said, pushing himself into a sitting position and leaning against the headboard. ‘What time is it?’

‘Just after ten.’

He looked at her outdoor shoes. ‘You’ve been out already?’

‘Café des Deux Gares.’

‘Of course,’ he said, running his hands over his hair to flatten it down. ‘Was Liesl’s film any good? Anything you could use?’

Sandrine nodded. ‘Dreadful, but what we need.’

‘Did you get the edition finished?’

Sandrine nodded. ‘Printed and ready to distribute tonight.’

He put his hand on her waist. ‘So you have done your work for the day?’

He smiled, the same crooked-eyed smile that still made her heart skip a beat.

Sandrine laughed. ‘If only,’ she said, then the lightness faded from her face. ‘There’s something I need to tell you, something I just heard.’

‘Let it wait,’ he said, undoing the top button of her dress.

‘It’s important,’ she said, though she didn’t want him to stop.

‘So’s this,’ he said, undoing the next button, then the next, to reveal her plain white chemise underneath.

‘At least let me shut the door,’ she laughed, slipping out of his hands.

The latch snicked loudly. Sandrine stepped out of her dress, which fell like a pool of water at her feet, and walked back towards him. Slowly she raised her arms and pulled her chemise over her head, then removed her slip and knickers. Raoul lifted the corner of the sheet to let her under.

‘Welcome back,’ he said.

Sandrine lay in the corner of his arm, on pillows that still held the memory of him. She heard him exhale, a sigh half of relief, half of expectation, and she smiled. For a moment, they lay, arm to arm, side to side, her feet a little cold against the heat of his just woken skin. Then Raoul bent over her. Now Sandrine could feel his breath, whispering over the surface of her skin like a summer breeze. His lips dancing, his tongue slipping, sliding over her breasts. She gasped as he took her nipple into his mouth, licking, teasing.

Raoul raised himself on his elbow and reached out to the pocket of his trousers, lying on the chair beside the bed.

‘Wait a moment, I have something,’ he whispered.

Sandrine stopped him. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s all right.’

Raoul looked at her in surprise, with gratitude. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

He lowered himself beside her and stroked the length of her arm with the back of his fingers, then moved his hand across her stomach, down to the space between her legs.

‘
Mon còr
,’ he said, echoing her words.

Gently he moved until he was covering her body with his, looking down at her. Sandrine met his gaze, then, without warning, threw her arms around his back and rolled him over, so that now she was sitting astride him.

‘That’s better,’ she teased. ‘I prefer the view from here.’

Raoul laughed and put his hands on her slim waist. She leant forward, letting her breasts skim against his chest, then gently eased him inside her, little by little, until she had taken the whole of him. For a moment he lay still, contained with her, as if resting.

She leant forward again and, this time, kissed him on the lips, then the hollow of his throat. She felt strong, powerful, as if at this moment she could do anything. A hypnotic, heavy heat seeped through her limbs, and her head was filled with the sound of her blood beating. She had no sense of time or space. There was only Raoul and the sunlight slipping through the gaps in the shutters.

Slowly, she began to move.

‘Sandrine.’

The word slipped from between his lips. She took his hands and held them against hers, palm to palm, fingers entwined. She could feel the force of him, the power in his tanned arms and firm thighs, a mirror of her own strong arms and legs. She kissed him again, and, this time, felt his tongue dart between her lips, hot and wet and hungry.

He was breathing harder, driven on by desire. An echo of her own feelings, emotions, need. They were moving faster now, Sandrine rocking against him, pushing his hands back against the headboard, the roaring in her head fiercer, separate from thought. She wanted to imprint the memory of his face on her eyes, the memory of muscle and bone and heat. The urgency of what she felt kept her moving on and on, until suddenly she felt the blood rush to her head, and held on to him as he cried out her name. He shuddered, then was still.

Gradually, the roaring in her head faded away too, until nothing remained but the hushed silence of the room. Sandrine leant forward, her head on his chest for a moment, hearing the rhythm of his heart slowing down, returning to its normal beat. Then, she moved and lay back down beside him.

Without intending to, they drifted to sleep. Outside, the sun grew stronger, climbing higher in the Midi sky. Safe in one another’s arms, they were unaware of the hours passing or the life of the house going on downstairs. For now, only for now, their universe was bounded by the four walls of the bedroom, the closed door, the wooden shutters keeping the world at bay.

Chapter 107

COUSTAUSSA

L
iesl glanced back over her shoulder. Early in the morning, she had taken food up to the Maquis in the garrigue, then come down into Couiza. The man was still standing in the doorway, smoking a cigarette. No reason to think he was watching her. To think he was watching anyone. But there was something about him that set alarm bells ringing. Liesl didn’t think she’d seen him before. Or had she? Dark suit, a little too smart for this small, out-of-the-way town. He wasn’t local, certainly.

She lifted the blue and white check cloth in her basket to make sure she had nothing incriminating. There was a handkerchief full of cherries, a late crop. Yves Rousset had given them to her, half for Marieta and half for his mother. Liesl had promised to deliver them herself. She was out of film, so hadn’t brought her camera with her. She had her
carte d’identité
and her ration book.

Feigning indifference, she looked again. The man was still there, still smoking. Out of place in his dark suit and hat, staring in her direction. Straight away she adopted the usual procedures when they thought they were being followed. She went into the épicerie, though she had no coupons, then came out and went into the tabac. It was under new management now, the previous owner, a notorious local informer, having been found dead in the river six weeks before. A reprisal killing. Liesl didn’t know who’d done it. Not ‘Citadel’, nor anyone from the Couiza Maquis either. That wasn’t how they operated.

She chatted for a while and bought a sheet of one-franc stamps. When she emerged into the sunshine, she crossed the square and went into the post office. Its wide double door wasn’t visible from across the road. If the man was following her, he’d have to move.

She spent ten minutes queuing inside, pretended to have left the letter she wished to post at home and came out again. The Tramontana was starting to blow, sending the dust swirling up and around. She glanced again towards the doorway and, this time, saw nothing.

The man had gone.

Liesl let out her breath, hoping it was just a false alarm. She, Geneviève and Eloise saw shadows everywhere. It was hard to distinguish real threat from their overheated imaginations.

She paused a moment, allowing her heart to steady, then headed to the Grand Café Guilhem, where she was due to meet Geneviève. Liesl knew she was late, but she was still within their agreed time frame. As she walked, with her long, elegant strides, someone wolf-whistled. She turned and a rather sweet-looking man grinned at her. Liesl didn’t acknowledge him, but she did smile slightly as she walked past. No sense in making a fuss.

In two years, Liesl had grown from a solemn, quiet girl into a tall, graceful and self-possessed young woman. She was very slim, but it enhanced her beauty rather than diminishing it and she was much admired. She could have had her pick of the few young men left in Couiza, if she’d wanted. Only a few close friends knew how much time she and Yves Rousset spent in one another’s company. It was harder now, but they contrived to meet when they could. Like this morning. She smiled at the memory.

Liesl sat at their usual table on the terrace, the one with the best view of both the bridge and the road. She caught sight of her reflection in the glass window and wondered, as she often did, if Max would even recognise her now. It had been so long since they’d seen one another.

No one in Coustaussa or Couiza had ever challenged the story that Liesl was a cousin of the Vidals from Paris. So many of the old mountain families were distantly related – Sandrine and Marianne were cousins of the Saint-Loup girls, several times removed. Liesl had rarely been asked to produce her papers and, when she had, there’d been no trouble. The false documents Suzanne had obtained for her continued to pass muster. But the need to keep her true background secret meant Liesl rarely got news about her brother. What few scraps of information they did receive came from the waitress in the Café de la Paix in Le Vernet village, who telephoned Sandrine in Carcassonne, who then relayed the news back to Coustaussa via Raoul. As for her nephew, little Jean-Jacques, Liesl hadn’t seen him for over a year.

The waiter came to take her order. ‘
S’il vous plaît?
’

Liesl looked in her purse and discovered it was all but empty.

‘Actually, I’m expecting a friend,’ she said. ‘We’ll order when she gets here.’

‘
Un café
. . .’

‘No, really, I’m happy to wait.’

‘. . . on the house,’ he said.

‘Oh.’ Liesl looked up at him. ‘That’s very kind,’ she said quietly. ‘Then, yes please.’

She checked the road, wondering where Geneviève had got to, then glanced at her watch. It was unlike her to be late, despite the difficulties in getting from one place to another. She had gone to Limoux yesterday to hand over a film to Raoul for Sandrine, but Liesl had expected her back before now.

The waiter brought the ersatz coffee and she sipped it as slowly as she could, making it last for as long as possible. She looked at her watch again, tapping the glass in case it was losing time. The hands continued to move steadily round. Liesl felt a flurry of nerves in her stomach. The meeting place might have been discovered, someone might have talked. The rule was that if a contact was more than half an hour late, you left. You took no risks. The fact that the contact was Geneviève – her closest friend – made no difference.

Time was up.

Liesl smoothed down her dress, picked up her basket and walked quickly down the steps to the road. She looked towards Limoux, the direction she’d expect Geneviève to be coming from, willing her to be there. The road was empty.

She collected her bicycle, put her basket on the front, then began to cycle towards home. It was only as she passed the boulangerie on the corner that she saw him again. The same man. She pedalled faster, not wanting to run the risk of him stepping out in front of her. He did nothing, though he made no attempt to hide the fact that he was looking at her. And as she cycled east on the road towards Coustaussa, Liesl felt his eyes drilling into her back.

Liesl took a roundabout route, doubling back in case the man had somehow managed to follow her in a car or by motorbike. By the time she walked into the kitchen in Coustaussa, she was hot and worn out.

She handed the cherries to Marieta. ‘The rest are for Madame Rousset,’ she said. ‘I’ll take them over to her as soon as I’ve got my strength back.’

‘What happened?’ said Marieta, looking at her flushed face.

‘I was followed,’ Liesl said, pouring herself a glass of water and sitting down at the kitchen table. ‘At least, I think so. Didn’t want to take the risk.’

Marieta’s eyes sharpened, though her voice didn’t change.

‘Followed, you say,’ she said, putting the cherries into a colander. ‘Where?’

‘In Couiza. Not before.’

‘When?’

‘About an hour ago. I was due to meet Geneviève in the café, but she didn’t arrive. I was late, so it’s possible I missed her. In the end I decided it was better to come home.’ She met Marieta’s gaze. ‘Just in case.’

Marieta nodded. ‘Perhaps Madomaisèla Geneviève went straight down to Tarascon?’

Liesl looked up. ‘Why would she change her plans when we’d arranged to meet?’

Marieta frowned. ‘An old friend of Na Saint-Loup passed away at the weekend. It was a natural death and Pierre was old, but even so. Geneviève would wish to be there to comfort her mother, I’m sure of it.’

The explanation gave Liesl some comfort. It made sense and Geneviève was usually so reliable.

‘Yes, I can see she would want to be there.’

‘No reason to think anything else,’ Marieta said sternly. ‘No sense worrying yourself to a thread.’

Liesl sighed. ‘No.’

Marieta held Liesl’s glance for a moment, then pointed to the empty glass bottle on the draining board. ‘Could you pass me that?’

Liesl got up and handed it to her, then sat down again. She watched as Marieta ladled the cherries into the narrow neck, pushing them down with the handle of a wooden spoon.

‘What are you doing?’

‘What I can,’ Marieta said quietly. She took a small bottle of cognac from the table in front of her and started to drizzle the brandy on top of the cherries. ‘Making a kind of Guignolet. It is Monsieur Baillard’s particular favourite drink.’

‘But . . .’ Liesl began, then stopped. She had been about to ask what the point was in making Monsieur Baillard’s favourite drink, but knew better than to say the thought out loud. ‘Where did you get the brandy?’ she asked instead.