Clash by Night (22 page)

“They want to see the prisoner.”

Becker eyed him levelly. “Really? I thought they wanted to volunteer as
Reichsmadchens
.”

“Is there any possibility of a visit, sir?” Hesse asked, bypassing the sarcasm.

Becker exhaled wearily and sat back in his chair. “Hesse, what is your interest in this family?”

Hesse didn’t reply, unable to think of anything safe to say.

“You do realize there’s no question of Duclos’ guilt in this,” Becker said to him. “I’m not condemning an innocent man.”
 

“Yes, sir.”

“Was that your concern?”

Hesse kept silent.

Becker waved in dismissal. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter. Send the American woman in to see me.”

Hesse glanced up gratefully. “Thank you, sir.”

Becker nodded gracelessly. The redhead was just what he needed right now, but at least she was a known quantity. The little blonde sister looked one breath away from hysterics and he didn’t want a scene. He was fairly certain the widow would be more contained.

Laura entered almost as soon as Hesse left. She was wearing a blue skirt, a white blouse, and an intent expression.

Becker felt a subtle antagonism flare at the sight of her. She irritated him in some visceral way that had nothing to do with sex or even their relative positions. Maybe they had been enemies in a past life.

“Madame Duclos,” he said remotely.

“Colonel Becker, I would like your permission for me and my sister-in-law to see Alain Duclos.”

“And why should I grant such a request?” he asked.

“Because we’re family and this time tomorrow he will be dead.”

“His own doing, Madame.”

“Please, Colonel, what harm can come of it now?”

“Some harm, I think, if you were working with him and want to get a last bit of information.”

“Surely you’ll keep a guard in the room?”

He favored her with a thin smile. “Why, Madame? Guards have not stopped any of you before, it seems.”

Laura saw that she had angered him and retreated. “But I’m not asking for much...” she began, switching to his native German.

 
He cut her off, standing abruptly.

“I don’t care what you’re asking for,” he snapped. “Your husband’s brother is a confessed saboteur, an enemy of my country. I will not permit it.”

Horrified at his reaction, desperately afraid that she had lost her chance, Laura retreated and said nothing, stalling for time.

“You may go, Madame Duclos,” Becker told her coldly, turning away from her.

Laura waited as if he had not spoken.

He realized that she hadn’t moved and looked back at her. She was staring at him fixedly, her green eyes enormous. Obviously loath to do anything further, she was still clinging stubbornly to the hope that he might change his mind.

Becker sighed. She was Lysette’s friend, after all. He walked directly to the door and yanked it open. Hesse snapped to attention in the hall.

“Ten minutes,” Becker said to his aide. “Ten minutes for each of the women separately, and no more.”

“Yes, sir,” Hesse said smartly.

Behind him, Brigitte sobbed in relief.

“Thank you,” Laura said, lapsing back into French. Becker turned away, ignoring her, standing with his back to her until she had left the room.

Brigitte was waiting and they followed Hesse into the basement of the hospital. Alain was being held in a windowless storeroom with two armed guards posted outside the door. Hesse halted there and told the soldiers to admit the visitors one at a time.

“You go first,” Laura said to Brigitte. She didn’t know how much longer the younger woman could hold together.

When the door opened Laura didn’t look inside, but glanced away as Brigitte entered, trying to think of everything she wanted to say to Alain. She must not waste a second.

The time fled by, and at Hesse’s signal one of the guards thumped the door with the butt of his rifle. Brigitte emerged seconds later, looking deathly, her face streaked with tears. She swayed unsteadily and Hesse took two steps toward her before he remembered where he was. He stopped and said stiffly, “Is there anything you need, Mademoiselle?”

Brigitte stared at him dumbly, as if she didn’t recognize him. Then she shook her head.

“Can you take her upstairs to the chapel?” Laura asked him in German. “She can wait for me there.”
 

Hesse glanced at Laura and nodded. “Ten minutes,” he repeated to the soldiers guarding the door, leading Brigitte away.

Laura entered the room quietly, looking around at the cinderblock walls. Alain was in the far corner, his hands in his pockets, his blue shirt wrinkled and stained. As she came closer she could see the new growth of light brown beard on his chin and cheeks, the faint smile on his lips. Having just seen Brigitte, he was still playing the role of brave brother.

“Are you all right?” Laura murmured. “Have they mistreated you?”

Alain snorted. “No. Henri did their work for them; there was no reason for it.”

“He gave you up to save himself?”

“What do you think?” Alan countered. He lifted one shoulder. “I admitted everything to keep them off the others. They have their sacrificial lamb.”

“But Becker must know you didn’t act alone.”

“I’m sure he’s confident that a public execution will extinguish whatever revolutionary spirit remains,” Alain said darkly.

“It won’t do that,” Laura said. “Ever.”
 

He blinked rapidly, touching her hair. “We haven’t gotten along very well lately, have we?” he said.

Laura didn’t answer. She reached up and caught his hand in hers.

“It was my fault,” Alain said. “Do you forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” she said.

He drew her into his arms and she put her head on his shoulder. “Curel told me something this morning,” she murmured. “A message came over the BBC channel last night. ‘Eagle to Snake-the sailor is home from the sea.’”

Alain held her off and looked at her. “Harris made it back to England,” he said eagerly.

“Yes.”

He embraced her again. “I knew he would,” Alain said above her. “I knew it.”

Laura heard his heart beating beneath her ear, and found it difficult to realize that in less than a day this young life would be cut short and the vibrant, healthy body she held in her arms would be clay. The enormity of the waste overwhelmed her: the summer days he would never spend in the sun, the children he would never have, the future, which he’d tried to save for France, that he would never see. She clutched him and whispered, “I promise your life will not go for nothing, Alain. I’ll fight with the last breath I have to carry on what you started. On my soul, I promise it.”

 
His grip tightened and she knew he had heard. Then he put his hands on her shoulders and stepped away, looking down into her face. His long blond lashes were wet.

“I’m not sorry,” he said. “Not for any of it.”

“I know.”

“But I’m scared.” Tears filmed his blue eyes. “I just don’t want the bastards to know it.”

Laura touched his cheek. “They won’t. Think about the next life, where we’ll all be together someday. Think about Thierry, you’ll join him very soon. And he’ll be so glad to see you. He loved you so.”

“Do you believe that?” he asked, doubt and hope mixed in his tone, and she remembered how young he was. “That we’ll be together again?”

“I do,” she said firmly. “And you must believe it too.”

He smiled. “I love you, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”

“No, I mean I really love you. I always have, from the day Thierry first brought you home.”

“Oh, Alain,” Laura said tenderly, letting him see her emotion because what might happen as a result of it didn’t matter anymore.

“Kiss me,” he said. “Just this once, for goodbye.”
 

She had to smile. Condemned or not he was still Alain, using this moment, when he knew she could refuse him nothing, for emotional blackmail.

She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. When he turned to capture her mouth with his she kissed him like a lover. He held her tightly, his man’s body responding to hers, and when he finally let her go they were both breathless.

 
He studied her, still clinging to her hands.

“I wonder how much longer you mean to go on without me after I’m gone,” he mused softly.

“Who can say?” Laura whispered. “In a war like this one, who can say?”

“Do you think you’ll ever get back to Maska…Mascu...”

“Massachusetts,” Laura answered, her smile trembling on her lips. “You never could pronounce it.”
 

“Give me your word that you’ll try to get home to America someday.”

“Why?”

“Because you love it there and I want to think you’ll be happy.”
 

“I will try.”

He nodded. “Good.”

The rifle butt pounded on the door.

Alain’s grip tightened. “Take care of Brigitte,” he said. “She’s not strong like you. And keep her home with you tomorrow. I don’t want either one of you to see it.”

“All right.”

“And my...the old man. Don’t blame him for what’s happened to me. He was used, the way they use everybody.”

“Alain,” Laura said pleadingly, as if he could help either one of them. She had willed herself not to break down but was losing the battle.

“Courage,” Alain whispered. “Don’t let them see you crying when you leave.”

Laura nodded hastily, wiping her eyes. She searched his face, aware that she would never see him alive again.

The rapping came once more, louder. He hugged her for the last time and then pushed her toward the door.

“Remember our cause,” he called after her, and then, more softly, “Remember me.”
 

Laura stumbled blindly through the door, hearing it slam as it closed behind her.
 

The two soldiers looked directly ahead, their faces expressionless.

Laura forced herself to walk slowly down the hall. She wanted to run as fast as she could, toward nothing, away from the memory of Alain’s face as he said goodbye. She climbed the steps to the first floor and went into the chapel. Dipping her hand into the font of holy water at the door she blessed herself, slipping into the last pew. The flickering light in the sacristy, indicating the presence of the Eucharist inside the tabernacle, showed her Brigitte and the German corporal in a pew on the other side of the central aisle. He appeared to be talking softly, and Brigitte, with bent head, was listening.

Laura composed herself and went to join them. The corporal stood when he saw her.

“Thank you for staying with her,” Laura said evenly.

“It was no trouble, madame,” the boy said. With a final glance at Brigitte he genuflected toward the altar and left.

Laura couldn’t help thinking how absurd the whole thing was. She had thanked him for comforting her sister-in-law when the German boy could be on the firing squad the following day. They were truly living in a world gone mad.

“Brigitte, let’s go home,” she said wearily to the girl. “You’ll stay at the house tonight. There’s nothing more we can do here.” Brigitte allowed herself to be led into the aisle and out the door.

* * *

The Gestapo investigator arrived early the next morning, in plenty of time to witness the execution. Becker was drinking coffee in his office when Hesse announced, “Standartenfuhrer Kleinschmitt to see you, sir.”
 

Becker stood as Kleinschmitt strolled through the door. The officer’s black uniform fit him as closely as a sheath fits a knife, his neat jodhpurs fork pleated into a pair of boots polished to a high sheen. He wore a red armband emblazoned with a swastika on his left sleeve, a silver death’s head signet ring on his right hand. A cluster of oak leaves decorated the front of his cap. On his collar the runic letters SS, the “lightning bolts,” marked him as a member of that feared and hated group, the elitist
Schutzstaffel
stormtroopers. And Kleinschmitt belonged to the most feared and most hated segment within the SS, the secret state police,
Geheime Staats Polizei
. The Gestapo.
 

They were all carefully chosen men, all volunteers. Becker had known quite a few of them and he detested them equally.

Becker greeted Kleinschmitt with a studied politeness that barely concealed his disdain. “Good morning, Standartenfuhrer,” he said evenly. “You keep early hours.”

“Perhaps if you rose a little earlier, Colonel, the unfortunate incident which brought me here might not have occurred.” Kleinschmitt, who was arrogant and ambitious but not stupid, saw Becker’s scorn, as he was meant to, and dismissed it. He knew all about Becker’s illustrious heritage, the grandfather in the Reichstag, the war hero father, the breeding of which the pretentious fool was so proud. It would not help him now. Becker had his fine, high principled nose so far up in the air that he couldn’t see what was going on under it, and Kleinschmitt intended to use that situation to his advantage.