Citadel (71 page)
‘What time did you inform them we would be arriving, Laval?’
‘I said between eight and nine o’clock this evening, sir. I thought it better not to be too specific.’
Authié nodded. ‘How did they react?’
‘They were unhappy, suspected you were trying to catch them out, sir. But they attempted to conceal it.’
‘Good.’
As they drove past the Jardin des Plantes, Authié went over his plans in his mind. The first twenty-four hours would be critical. Tomorrow was Bastille Day. Any kind of celebration was now illegal, which of course meant it was an obvious date for a partisan attack or protest.
He would spend an hour or so with Schiffner, both of them going through the motions of pretending they were equal and willing allies. He needed to know how many men he might have at his disposal. His erstwhile informant, Fournier, had been murdered in the same attack that had killed the leader of the Carcassonnais Milice, Albert Kromer. But there was no reason to assume Fournier’s sister would have moved from the rue du Palais. While he was with Schiffner, he intended to send Laval to find out if the Vidal house was still occupied.
So far as the forgery was concerned, Authié had made a convincing enough case against Sandrine Vidal in his mind. It was now only a matter of finding her and ascertaining the extent to which she was involved. But now there was more.
Authié leant back in his seat. When they had stopped at Milice headquarters in Toulouse to make the telephone call to Schiffner, Authié had seen a report about a women’s network operating in Carcassonne. He had no idea if there was truth in the story, but he remembered the way Marianne Vidal and her friend had closed ranks when he visited the house in the rue du Palais in search of Sandrine Vidal. And he had started to wonder.
Two birds with one stone, a net gradually tightening.
Laval killed the engine. ‘We’re here, sir.’
Authié waited for Laval to open his door, then got out. From the outside, it looked like an ordinary suburban house. Inside – beyond the mundane offices and ‘grey mice’, as they were known, typing and sending telegrams and receiving messages – Authié knew it would be a different matter. Here, regardless of intention, most men and women were persuaded, in the end, to talk.
Authié gave Laval his orders, instructing him to return in an hour, then turned and walked towards the entrance. After the usual security checks, he was taken to a large office at the back of the building and announced. Schiffner, with a fixed smile on his face, came out from behind his desk and offered Authié his hand. He spoke in German.
‘A pleasure to see you again, Major Authié.’
‘
Je vous en prie
,’ Authié replied.
Schiffner switched to French. He gestured to the two officers in the room with him. ‘You know Inspector Janeke and Inspector Zimmerman?’
Authié nodded at Schiffner’s deputies. Between them, these three men were in charge of pursuing the war against the Resistance in the Aude. In his eyes, therefore, they were responsible for the failure to suppress the insurgency.
‘You catch us somewhat by surprise,’ Schiffner said. ‘Our arrangements were for tomorrow.’
Authié met his eye. ‘We made better time than we had anticipated,’ he said. ‘I hope I have not inconvenienced you.’
Schiffner waved his hand. ‘Not in the slightest, not in the slightest. But the formal dinner to welcome you to Carcassonne is arranged for tomorrow night.’
‘
Back
to Carcassonne,’ he said lightly. ‘This is my home town.’
‘Of course, I forget.’
‘A dinner was not necessary though it is, of course, most kind.’
‘It is an honour,’ Schiffner said, with a smile that did not reach his eyes.
‘I shall look forward to it,’ Authié said, equally formally.
As second in command only to Chef Eckfelner himself, the seniority belonged with Schiffner. But Authié’s position was without parallel. He was French, yet had powerful supporters. He had authority over the operations of the Milice in Carcassonne, though the chain of command was blurred. It was not clear to whom he answered, Chartres or Paris or even Berlin. As a result, Schiffner was wary. Authié could see the caution in the German’s eyes. He let the silence stretch.
‘Can I offer you something to drink, Herr Authié?’ Schiffner said in the end. ‘Whisky? Brandy?’
‘Thank you, brandy.’
Schiffner gestured to Janeke, who went to a drinks cabinet in the corner of the office and poured two measures of cognac.
‘I confess I am not entirely clear what your instructions might be, Herr Authié.’
Authié allowed himself a slight smile at Schiffner’s unwillingness to use his military rank. It was the second time, so deliberate rather than a slip of the tongue.
‘Tell me, Herr Schiffner, do you consider you are winning the war against the insurgents?’
The Nazi flushed. ‘There is still work to do, but I would say so. Our figures compare favourably with other regions.’
‘How many terrorists have you deported?’
Schiffner glanced at Inspector Janeke as he handed him the brandy. The lieutenant said nothing.
‘I cannot say without checking our records,’ Schiffner said. ‘All the details are in our files.’
‘One hundred, one hundred and fifty, more?’
‘In excess of two hundred, I should say.’
‘The majority of those in June and July,’ Authié continued.
‘Herr Authié, forgive me,’ Schiffner said, trying to mask his impatience. ‘Is there something
specific
you would like to know? Please, do ask. It will save us both time.’
Authié leant forward and put his untouched drink on the desk. ‘Very well. It seems to me that, with the intelligence provided to you, your attempts to clean the vermin from the Bastide are less successful than they might be. The majority of the insurgents seem to have been left at liberty to join other groups.’
‘The Maquis are not our prime concern in Carcassonne, as you well know,’ Schiffner said stiffly. ‘Having said that, I believe our actions against the guerrilla forces in the countryside are successful in the main.’
Authié sat back in his chair. He pulled his cigarette case from the inside breast pocket of his jacket and offered it to Schiffner, who shook his head. He shrugged, took out a cigarette and tapped it on the silver lid to settle the tobacco, then got out his lighter.
‘Perhaps if you dismiss your officers,’ he said, ‘we could talk more frankly.’
‘I would prefer them to remain.’
Authié snapped the lid shut, killing the flame.
‘In which case,’ he said, pleasantly, ‘I regret we have nothing to say to one another at this stage.’
He stood up.
‘Wait,’ Schiffner said quickly. ‘Very well.’
Authié stared at him, then slowly sat down again. Schiffner could not afford either to alienate Authié – not until he had ascertained the true extent of his authority – or to jeopardise the Gestapo operation in Carcassonne. Both men were aware of it. Schiffner turned to his lieutenants.
‘
Warten draußen
.’
The door closed behind them.
‘A wise decision,’ Authié said. ‘So, you asked me what
specifically
I wanted to know.’
Schiffner nodded. ‘I did.’
Authié sat forward in his chair. ‘You have heard of the agent code-named “Sophie”? Or the
réseau
she is said to command in Carcassonne?’
Schiffner gave a bark of laughter. ‘It is common knowledge that such a network does not exist. It’s a fairy tale,
ein Märchen
, something out of the brothers Grimm. A unit of women, it is propaganda only.’
‘Do you think so?’ Authié said. ‘Yet most of the heroines of your fairy tales are girls, are they not? There are women who support the insurgents, as you are well aware. Now, more than ever.’
Schiffner waved his hand. ‘Running errands, maybe, but setting explosives, sabotage, destroying power lines, this I do not believe.’ He gave another hollow laugh. ‘What is more, this
réseau
is everywhere. In the countryside, in Carcassonne itself, on the coast, any attack that cannot be attributed to someone else is laid at their door.’
Authié met his gaze. ‘If you wish to improve your standing, shall we say, then I suggest you listen very carefully. For reasons I do not propose to elaborate, I am interested in “Sophie”. If you are prepared to help me, I will be prepared to share with you intelligence that will enable you to bring into custody the leaders of the R3 network.’
‘Excuse me?’
Ever since the various Resistance networks had been brought together in January 1943 – and France divided into different zones – there had been a game of cat-and-mouse as the Gestapo attempted to hunt down the leaders of the various factions.
‘You need to find “Myriel”, do you not?’ Authié said. ‘His real name is Jean Bringer. He is the leader of the FFI, working with Aimé Ramond – a serving police officer here in Carcassonne – as well as Maurice Sevajols and others.’
‘How do you know this?’ said Schiffner.
Authié held his gaze. ‘If you give me your full support for the next three days, perhaps more, then I will give you all the information you need to move against R3.’ He paused. ‘Since you claim not even to believe in this women’s
réseau
, it seems a more than fair bargain.’
He watched Schiffner wrestling with the decision. His anger at finding terms being dictated to him was in conflict with his self-interest.
‘Well?’
Finally, the Nazi nodded. ‘I accept your terms.’
Authié gave a sharp nod.
Schiffner frowned. ‘You talk as if you know the identity of this “Sophie”. Is that the case?’
Authié gave a cold smile. ‘A suspicion, only. But one I intend to prove. If I am right, I suspect some kind of action will be planned for tomorrow night. It is widely known, no doubt, that you have a dinner arranged.’
Schiffner flushed. ‘It is impossible to organise such a thing without it becoming common knowledge. The staff alone . . .’
‘You took no special precautions?’
‘Of course we did. There is increased security. All personnel going in and out of the Cité will be searched. Everyone has been issued with special passes for tomorrow night. Of course, if you had given us prior warning, we would have brought arrangements forward.’
Authié gave a cold smile. ‘Where is this dinner to be held?’
‘The Hôtel de le Cité.’
‘Good.’ A slow smile spread across his face. ‘Telephone your men in the Cité and tell them to be alert. To report anything unusual, particularly in the vicinity of the hotel itself. Anything at all.’
CARCASSONNE
S
andrine waited until it was dark before crossing the Pont Neuf. To her right, the distinctive arches of the Pont Vieux were blockaded at each end by Nazi anti-tank installations. She wore a dark pullover, black canvas trousers over her dress and rubber-soled shoes on her feet. Her hair was tucked up in a black beret.
To her right, she could see the turrets and towers of the medieval Cité, now occupied by the Wehrmacht. The Porte de l’Aude had been closed up and the inhabitants of the Cité, like their ancestors in the summer of 1209, expelled from their own streets. When they were children, she and Marianne had played in the ramparts, climbed the old stone walls, darting in and out of the postern gates that led to the moat and the roads surrounding the citadel. Always a
garçon manqué
, a tomboy, Sandrine had played the
chevalier
. Marianne preferred to be the châtelaine.
Sandrine quickly left the main road and ducked down to the path running along the right bank close to Maingaud’s distillery. Walking fast, head down, she passed the night fishermen casting their lines out into the drifting current of the Aude.
There was a bright and cloudless sky, not ideal for this kind of operation. Sandrine remembered sitting in Coustaussa listening to Monsieur Baillard’s stories of taking ‘cargo’ to the Spanish border. How the moon was an enemy. Praying for misty nights, for overcast nights, to conceal them from the French border patrols. Then, she had no idea that she would learn to feel the same.
Raoul was waiting for her in the shadow of the walls below the Lafarge factory. When he smiled, quickly, in the dark, Sandrine let her fingers touch his, briefly. He too was dressed in black, with a dark handkerchief around his neck. He was carrying a holdall over his left shoulder.
‘You have everything?’ she whispered, even though she’d packed the bag herself.
‘Yes.’
Her despair of a few hours ago utterly forgotten, Sandrine now felt calm and focused on the job in hand. They made their way down rue Barbacane, past the église Saint-Gimer and a handful of small shops, an old-fashioned mercerie with a dwindled display of thread and buttons, and the boulangerie, shuttered for the night. In the days of austerity in the twenties and thirties, the quartier had fallen on hard times. It became a rough neighbourhood. Before the war it was home to refugees from Spain and North Africa, gypsies from Romania and Hungary, and impoverished Carcassonnais. The police regularly raided the area, looking for communists and Spanish émigrés, anyone without papers or whose name was on a list. Now, many of the houses were officially unoccupied, though dark eyes looked out through the cracks in the shutters. Even the Wehrmacht patrols were reluctant to come here.
Raoul turned left into a narrow dead-end road, rue Petite Côte de la Cité. The houses, two and three storeys high, showed the signs of many families crammed in together. Boarded windows and cracked wooden shutters, crumbling brickwork and peeling paint. The street sloped steeply, leading to a flight of worn stone steps with high flint walls on either side. It led up to the Cité through densely cultivated market gardens. Branches of fig trees, bare of fruit, hung low over the steps and pinpricks of green light from glow-worms illuminated the dark cracks between the stones.
Raoul took the steps two at a time, barely pausing for breath. Sandrine kept pace. Up, up they climbed, following the winding steps round, until suddenly they were out in the open space below the Porte d’Aude, the western entrance into the Cité. Straight ahead were the sheer western walls of the Château Comtal, the Tour Pinte, like a finger pointing to heaven.
