Citadel (66 page)
‘What we need is reliable information,’ she said, looking round the table. ‘About when Authié’s due to arrive, where he is now, where he’s going to be based once he gets to Carcassonne. Until we know the facts of the situation, we can’t plan anything.’
‘Agreed,’ Raoul said.
‘So, Suzanne, find Jeanne and see if she knows anything more than they’ve given out on the wireless.’ She turned to her sister. ‘Marianne, can you talk to Robert? Find out if Gaston’s right that Yvette is going to work tonight. If she is, set up a meeting for her to talk to Raoul later. Can you do that?’
Marianne looked exhausted, but she nodded. ‘Where?’
‘Usual bar on the Canal du Midi, off rue Antoine Marty,’ Raoul said. ‘Bonnet knows the one. The password is: “Monsieur Riquet is unwell.” The response is: “His friend, Monsieur Belin, has the medicine.” Is that all right?’
Most of the passwords Sandrine came up with were inspired by local Carcassonnais men and women of note – architects and engineers, artists, industrialists. All the local history her father had taught her, coming to practical use now.
Marianne nodded again. ‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
‘But we can’t stay here,’ Marianne said, her voice cracking. ‘We’ll have to clear out. This is the first place he’ll look.’
‘It hasn’t come to that yet,’ Sandrine said, still thinking. ‘We must also make contact with Liesl and Geneviève. Find out if they’ve heard anything, especially work out how Liesl got the photographs.’ She smiled at her sister. ‘We can’t rely on anyone calling – there’s no reason why they would – so I think the best thing would be for you and Suzanne to go in person, once you’ve finished here. Go to Coustaussa. Get out from under Madame Fournier’s nose, if nothing else.’
A look of such relief swept over Marianne’s face that Sandrine knew she’d made the right decision. If her sister was picked up now, she could see she hadn’t the fight left in her to stand up to them.
‘But what about you?’ Marianne was saying. ‘You’re in more danger than anyone if Authié comes back.’
Sandrine saw Suzanne and Raoul exchange a glance. They knew what she was thinking. That they had to strike first, before Authié had the chance to do anything.
Marianne saw the look. ‘What is it? What are you going to do?’ she said in a low voice. ‘Sandrine?’
Sandrine hesitated, then took a deep breath. ‘The only thing we can do,’ she said. ‘We have to kill him.’
T
he next few hours passed quickly.
Suzanne headed to the rue de la Gaffe, in the shadow of the medieval Cité on the far side of the Aude, where Jeanne Giraud lived with her husband and father-in-law. Her papers were checked as she crossed the Pont Vieux, but the
vert-de-gris
paid her no more attention than usual.
It was an abortive mission. Jeanne knew no more than they did, namely that Major Leo Authié was being sent back to Carcassonne to lead the ongoing campaign against the Resistance. Her husband, Jean-Marc, was in Roullens, treating two survivors from Maquis de Mas Saintes-Puelles, but was expected back at any moment.
Jeanne’s father-in-law was inclined to talk. ‘I remember Authié,’ old Giraud said, turning and spitting his contempt to the ground. ‘He’s the one questioned me in the hospital. After the bomb on Bastille Day that damaged the cathédrale Saint-Michel. He threatened us. Remember, Jeanne?’
‘I remember,’ Jeanne said.
‘Bastille Day,’ he said, his voice rich with age and nostalgia. ‘We used to have such fireworks. The fourteenth of July, the whole sky lit up white and red. The stones of the Cité themselves looked like they were on fire.’ For a moment, his face was bright with happier memories. Then the light faded from his eyes. ‘Back in the day, back in the day.’
‘And we’ll have fireworks again, you’ll see, when all this is over.’
The old man simply shook his head and went back inside.
Jeanne dropped her voice. ‘He’s losing heart,’ she said to Suzanne. ‘It’s gone on too long.’
Suzanne nodded. ‘Yes.’
Jeanne sighed. ‘When my husband gets back, I’ll find out if he’s heard anything about Authié. If he has, I’ll get a message to Sandrine or Marianne. Are they still in rue du Palais?’
‘For the time being,’ Suzanne said.
Jeanne’s eyes narrowed. ‘Has something changed?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
Suzanne strode back along rue de la Gaffe, aware of eyes behind every shuttered window, and out on to rue Barbacane. She stood in line in the hot sun, waiting to be allowed to cross the bridge. Once more she produced her papers for the Wehrmacht patrol at the checkpoint. Once more, she was waved through.
Two Waffen-SS soldiers were posing for photographs with the backdrop of the fortified city behind them. She was tempted to walk in front of the camera, but knew it would be stupid to draw attention to herself for no gain.
Marianne was in the Bastide looking for Robert Bonnet. She tried the Café Continental first, with no luck. She went past the apartment where Max and Liesl had once lived, looking up at the first-floor window. Another family had it now, all traces of the previous occupants eradicated. She passed the rue de l’Aigle d’Or, unable to prevent herself glancing to the back door of the café. It had been raided the previous week, it was presumed as some kind of retaliation for Sandrine and Suzanne’s sabotage of the Milice recruiting office.
She had to stop herself breaking into a run as she felt the familiar twist of fear in her stomach. These days she was rattled almost all of the time. Her nerve had gone. She found it hard to sleep or to eat, but couldn’t seem to do anything about it. There was a ticking clock in her head, like a stopwatch counting down, telling her that their luck was about to run out.
Marianne eventually found Robert in the Café Saillan, near the covered market. There was a queue of men in the tabac opposite and the usual lines of women outside the boulangeries and the épicerie. The café was dark and smoky, and she was conscious of being the only woman. All the same, she was so desperate to do what she had to do, then get ready to leave for Coustaussa, that she simply walked up to the table without any kind of precaution.
‘Robert, I have a message for you.’
He looked up with surprise, glanced anxiously around, then stood up and steered her by the elbow back into the street.
‘What are you doing here? Did they let Suzanne go?’
She nodded, then explained what Sandrine wanted. ‘If Yvette can do that?’
Robert nodded. ‘She’ll be there.’
She began to give the password, but Robert held up his hand. ‘Don’t worry about that, I’ll be there too. I’ll point Raoul out to her.’
‘I’ll tell him,’ she said, turning to go.
Robert put a hand out and touched her arm. ‘Are you all right, Marianne?’ he said, concern written across his face.
Marianne caught her breath, tempted to answer honestly for once. Then she shrugged. ‘I’m just tired, Robert. Very, very tired.’
‘Be careful.’
Raoul smiled. ‘I will.’
Sandrine straightened his tie and smoothed the shoulders of her father’s lightweight linen jacket. It had hung unworn in François’ wardrobe for four years, gathering dust. Raoul looked older in it. It was a good disguise. But the sight of him in her father’s favourite summer suit twisted at her heart strings. She thought they would have liked one another if they’d ever had the chance to meet.
‘Hey,’ he said tenderly. ‘It’ll be all right. I’ll be there and back before you know it, don’t worry.’
Sandrine picked a piece of fluff from his lapel. ‘Be very careful,’ she said again, not wanting to explain. ‘I’ll check you’re clear to go.’
She crept into the salon. Lucie had fallen asleep on the sofa, with Jean-Jacques cradled in the crook of her arm. Sandrine peered out of the window at the house next door. She could just make out the familiar silhouette behind the glass. She let the net drop, then went quickly back to the kitchen where Raoul was waiting.
‘Madame Fournier’s at the front. Go.’
He kissed her and turned away in his borrowed clothes. Sandrine felt a tug of déjà vu. At least this time she knew he’d be coming back.
As she stood at the kitchen door and watched Raoul cross the garden and go out of the gate, she wondered when it would stop. The sense of the ground going from under her feet when she suddenly thought, against all common sense and knowledge, that she’d seen her father. In the street or at the turn of the stairs or sitting at the old desk in his study, his head bowed over some pamphlet or lecture he was writing. That he was still alive. She had not expected, after nearly four years, that grief would still cut so deep, so easily.
She wandered back into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. She glanced up at the clock. Two hours since Marianne and Suzanne had gone. Only two minutes since Raoul had left, but already she was restless. She felt out of sorts, partly because she had slept so long during the day. Although it was her decision they should never all be away from the house at the same time, Sandrine hated being cooped up inside.
She sat down at the kitchen table, then got up again. She took the glass from the draining board and, this time, went to the cupboard and poured herself a finger of red wine. They tried to make it last, and it was early in the day to start drinking, but she needed something to steady her nerves.
Sandrine took a deep breath and then, slowly, exhaled. She had learnt how to be confident on the outside, to be tougher than the men. To keep her nerve. She knew how important it was for the others that she gave no hint of doubt or indecision. But things were different when she was on her own. She didn’t have to put a brave face on it. The truth was, the thought of planning to murder in cold blood – even Authié – made her feel sick to her stomach. Every act of sabotage ‘Citadel’ had undertaken had been against property, buildings, supply chains. They had gone out of their way to make sure no one was killed – not Gestapo agents, and not Milice. Some casualties were unavoidable. There was little chance, for example, that the driver of the Berriac train had survived the blast. But planning an execution seemed different. Was different.
The
résistants
thought it was because they were women that they baulked at killing. Sandrine didn’t agree. The evidence was that direct assassinations usually led to extreme reprisals – hostages, executions, mass arrests – and ended up the worse for their side.
Fifteen months ago, one of their first direct actions as ‘Citadel’ was to hit a café used by the Gestapo. They’d timed it deliberately so there’d be no one there. It was intended more to cause disruption, to be a warning. It was three in the morning and the premises should have been empty. They weren’t. A senior SS officer – a second lieutenant – had been killed. However much she told herself he deserved it, Sandrine was horrified that she had taken another human life. When it came out that the man was notorious among the working girls of the Bastide for his violent tastes, she’d managed to persuade herself she had done a good thing. Untersturmführer Zundel – it had seemed important to know her victim’s name – was the first man she’d killed. There had been others since. But still she had never before sat down and worked out how to murder someone in the way she was intending to assassinate Authié.
Sandrine drained the wine and poured herself another small glass, then walked to the door and stood leaning against the jamb, looking out over the empty garden. Barely any figs on the tree this year. A shame. She hated figs now, having eaten too many of them – they all had – but they were better than nothing.
She swilled the wine round in her glass, wondering what Monsieur Baillard would think of the woman she’d become. Would he be proud of her? Disappointed at how easily she had crossed the line between compassion and retaliation? Sandrine often thought about him, measuring her decisions against what she imagined he might have done in the same situation. It seemed extraordinary to believe that, in fact, they had only met on a few occasions. Even more impossible to believe that he was dead.
Sandrine tipped her head back and drained the glass in one. It was possible, of course, that Authié would leave them alone. But they couldn’t risk sitting on their hands and waiting to find out. There was no reason to think that his presence was anything to do with the Codex. The public explanation for his return to Carcassonne made sense enough. He had been successful against the Resistance in the North. Now he was to repeat the trick in Carcassonne.
She shook her head. When she looked back on that first summer, at the fairy-tale promise of deliverance Monsieur Baillard told her the Codex could offer, she was astonished at how easily she’d believed such an impossible story. Two years of fighting and resistance, she knew the truth now. No
chevaliers
were riding to save them, like the tales of old, no Jeanne d’Arc.
No ghost army.
It was down to them, a small band of women and men, like all the other groups in the hills and the hidden alleyways. Just them against the Milice and the Gestapo and the might of the occupation. And with Monsieur Baillard gone, even though the Nazis still sent teams to excavate the mountains around Tarascon and Foix, there was no one to tell her about the ancient spirit of the Midi rising up to lead them to victory.
Sandrine sighed. There was so much to do, so many decisions on her shoulders. She didn’t even dream any more. The shimmering figures on the periphery of her mind, the sense of something beyond the world she could see, had gone. Silenced by fear and the relentless hardship of the lives they were forced to live.
No one was coming to help them. Everything was down to them. To her.
I
n the very early hours of Tuesday morning, Yvette was waiting for the doors to be unlocked by the Gestapo officer on duty. A complicated system of passes, checks, going from one locked room to the next. Finally, she was out into the yard. Then the outer gate, and back on to the route de Toulouse.
‘
Bon soir
,’ she said.
The two guards ignored her, looked through her as if she didn’t exist. She wasn’t surprised. She didn’t know them – this wasn’t her usual shift; she’d needed to make up the money she’d lost by being ill last week – but they seemed the type to look down their noses, think it was beneath their dignity to be civil to the cleaning staff.
