Darkest Longings (68 page)

‘You may go closer, Hans,’ Blomberg panted.

Claudine froze. Blomberg was keeping his promise not to

lay a finger on her all right, but the promise had not

extended to the junior officer.

‘She’s a fine specimen, don’t you agree, Hans?’ Blomberg

asked him.

‘Yes, sir,’ he replied in a strangled voice.

‘All right, you may go now.’ Claudine almost fell to her

knees with relief. ‘And you,’ Blomberg said to her, ‘where is

your pride now?’

Claudine kept her eyes lowered and Blomberg laughed.

‘I shall see to it that your husband is told how obliging his

wife has been. I daresay he will enjoy the joke. Now, put

your clothes on and get out.’

When Claudine left, she went straight to her room and

doused her face in cold water, hoping it might calm her

anger. After all, she told herself, if that was all she had to

suffer to prevent any more harm coming to Francois, she

would gladly do it again.

She looked at herself in the mirror, and suddenly his

name erupted from the depths of her buried fear. Francois! she cried silently. Oh, Francis! She sank onto the edge of the bath and bowed her head over the washbasin. It was as

though some barricade she had erected against pain was

suddenly being cleaved from around her heart and in one

almighty surge the terror of what might be happening to him

rushed to every corner of her body. It was seven months

since she had seen him, over five since he had written.

Where was he now? What were they doing to him? Oh dear

God, please let Blomberg have been lying. Please, please,

God, let him be safe.

The following night Claudine was in the drawing-room,

helping Jean-Paul to black-out the windows, when Corinne

came down from the nursery to find her.

‘Erich von Pappen is here, madame? she whispered.

Claudine’s heart leapt into her throat, but her face

remained calm. In the hall she smiled politely at Hans, who

was standing to attention outside the dining-room, and

wished him goodnight. Then she followed Corinne at a

leisurely pace up to her apartment.

‘I cannot stay above a few minutes, madame Erich said,

as she burst into her bedroom.

‘Francois!’ she cried in a heavy whisper. ‘Is he all right?

What… ?’

Von Pappen shook his head. ‘I have not come for that

reason,’ he said. ‘I need to know if you have heard from

Lucien?’

‘No,’ Claudine answered. ‘No, nothing. Why?’

Again von Pappen shook his head. ‘He has been missing

for some time and we - I - am concerned.’

She didn’t miss the way he had changed the ‘we’ to I and

her heart started to pound. ‘Where is Francois, Erich?’ she

said.

He looked away, but she caught him by the shoulders and

turned him back to face her. ‘Where is he? Tell me!’

He stared dumbly into her eyes and she felt suddenly dizzy

with fear. ‘Erich,’ she said steadily, ‘I think, I’m not sure, but I

think Halunke is back. So tell me, what has happened?’

She heard him groan under his breath, then he snatched

himself away from her and started to beat his hands against

his head.

‘Erich!’ It came out almost as a scream. ‘Where is he,

Erich? You’ve got to tell me.’

‘I can’t,’ he whispered. ‘Madame, I can’t.’

‘Is he with Max Helber?’

Von Pappen seemed surprised, and quickly she told him

about Blomberg and what he had said to them.

‘No,’ von Pappen said when she had finished, ‘Francois

left Helber some time ago. But you’re right, Blomberg is

here for a reason. I don’t know what it is, but if you’re

thinking that he is Halunke, you are wrong.’

‘Then who is Halunke? Do you know? In his letter

Francois said…’ She swung round as the door opened and

Corinne came in.

‘I am sorry, madame,’ she said, ‘but Colonel Blomberg

wishes to speak with you, immediately.’

‘Tell him to go to hell!’ Claudine spat, and turned back to

von Pappen.

‘Madame I am sorry,’ he said, backing away, ‘I should not

have come.’

‘No!’ she cried. ‘You can’t go now!’

‘I must. I shall return when I have some news. In the

meantime, please stay out of the forest and keep all the

doors and windows locked.’

‘Just tell me if he’s all right, Erich?’ Claudine pleaded.

‘Please, I beg you …’ But as she started after him, Corinne

caught her by the arm and pulled her back.

‘He does not know where your husband is, madame,’ Corinne said softly. ‘He has not known for over three months.’

Sweat was pouring down his face, and the blinding pain

racked every nerve in his body. After a while a shadow

started to creep over his brain, but as he was sucked into the

blessed release of oblivion a wall of icy water hit his face. He

was too exhausted even to lift his head. A few minutes later

he heard a door open and close, muted voices, then

footsteps receding into the distance.

His left arm hung lifelessly at his side, the broken bones

of his fingers jutting out at right angles where they had been

snapped back. His right hand was resting on the table, but as

far as he could tell the bones remained intact. His arms, like

his back and legs, were covered with burns, but the true

extent of his injuries, internal and external, was unclear to

him; he was long past the point of being able to distinguish

one part of his body from another.

He had no idea where he was, or how long he had been

there. All he knew was that he had been in this dazzling pool

of light at the centre of this windowless room for so long

now, inhaling the stench of his own burning flesh, his own

blood, that it could only be a matter of time before he lost all

sense of reason, if not his life.

He had believed himself to be alone, but suddenly someone

coughed. Francois carefully raised his eyes until he saw the

feet of his companion. He willed himself to try again, and got

as far as the man’s waist before his head fell back onto his

chest. He had not slept for days. It felt like months.

The door opened again, and as if they were approaching

down a long, dark corridor of confused consciousness, the

sound of footsteps he both recognized and dreaded came to

him. For a moment the tiled floor started to swim, the blood

on it - his blood - was rising like waves. He blinked hard,

and it was steady again.

Walter Bruning, a member of General von Liebermann’s

elite Komitee, glanced at the officer partially hidden in the

shadows. Then he pulled a chair up to the table so that he

was facing Francois, and said, ‘So, at last you have admitted to working for the Services de Renseignements.’

‘Yes,’ Francois answered, with difficulty. ‘But I have

sworn allegiance to the Reich. I no longer work for France.’

Bruning rested his arms on the table and eyed the binding Francois to his chair. They were so tight that the man could barely breathe. ‘I am glad to hear this,’ he said.

‘But if it is true, why will you not tell us from whom you obtained the information you so misguidedly passed to the Fuihrer?’

‘I gave him no information,’ Francois answered in muted

tones.‘I had none to give.’

Bruning nodded to the man beside him. The man lifted a

wafer-thin knife from the table and went to stand beside

Francois.

‘Again, monsieur? Bruning said. ‘From whom did you

acquire the information?’

Francois didn’t answer. They had been through this a

thousand times, and would probably go through it another

thousand before they were done with him, but his answer

would remain the same. He had given no information, he

had had no information to give.

A gasp burst from his lips as the knife slid smoothly under

his thumbnail. His head flew back and his teeth bared in

agony. Again Bruning nodded, and the man slowly peeled

the nail from the skin. A white-hot blaze of pain shot

through Francois’ arm, and blood started to stream from the

wound. He braced himself, waiting for his index finger to

suffer the same fate, but nothing happened.

Finally, as the searing pain dulled to an excruciating

throb, he lowered his head to look at them.

‘Are you prepared to talk now?’ Bruning enquired.

‘For God’s sake,’ Francois muttered, ‘I’ve got nothing to

say.’

A peculiar smile twisted Bruning’s mouth. ‘All right, we

shall return later, monsieur? he said.

When they had gone, Francois let his head fall back to his

chest and tried to wrench his mind away from the pain, but it

was a long time before he was capable of coherent thought.

It was pointless, he knew it and they knew it. He was here because someone had to be blamed for Hitler’s astonishing error back in May, when he had halted his army for those

three vital days - days in which the British had managed to

mount one of the most extraordinary rescue operations the

world had ever seen. As soon as Hitler realized what was

happening he had given the order to mobilize again, but by

then it was too late. The British were snatching their troops

from under the Germans’ noses, and despite the fierce

battle that raged in the sky, on the sea and on land, they had

managed to rescue over three hundred thousand men, who

now lived to fight another day. The Germans’ three-day halt

was likely to prove one of the greatest strategic errors in

history, and Hitler had been persuaded to attribute it to false

information supplied by the Abwehr. And he, Francois, was

the Abwehr’s chosen scapegoat. Not only because his

loyalty was still in question, but because while he was on a

visit to the Franco-Belgian border in May, von Liebermann

had introduced him to the Fuihrer Now the Abwehr were

claiming that he had somehow succeeded in passing

information to their leader in a three-minute encounter

during which any number of generals could have heard his

every word.

It was fatuous - and yet, despite everything, it still gave Francois a certain satisfaction to know that Hitler’s butt headed refusal to mobilize sooner had had such dire

consequences. He knew that France had fallen, but he also

knew that Operation Sealion - the plan to invade Britain had

been postponed. That was undoubtedly one consequence

of that extraordinary three-day halt-and there were

sure to be others.

His mind blurred for a few minutes, then his eyes opened

again and he tried to ease himself to a more comfortable

position. But his broken ribs and the vice-like rope

intensified the pain as soon as he moved. The scar on hi

face was once again a fresh, open wound, and blood trickled

down his cheek. He wondered dimly if they were going toll

keep him here until he finally expired from the injuries they were inflicting. He would be of little use to them then-but I better that than become a traitor.

His mind, as it always did when he was left alone for any length of time, turned to Claudine. How he wished he had allowed himself the luxury of her love sooner! Perhaps then the thought of dying would be easier to bear. As it was, he

wanted more than anything to live, to turn those ten days

they had known into a lifetime. He closed his eyes and

swallowed hard on the choking emotion. Lack of sleep and

food had weakened him, and the desire to see her again, to

hold her in his arms and breathe the fragrance of her hair as

he told her over and over how much he loved her, was as

vivid and unrelenting as the pain.

He had no idea what was happening in France, what she

was having to face under the occupation, but he knew that

she would find the courage for whatever ordeals she had to

meet. The thought reassured him a little, even though he

knew how headstrong and impulsive she could be. He just

hoped to God Helber’s brother-in-law, Fritz Blomberg,

wasn’t carrying out the threats he had made before

departing for Lorvoire. Though she would put up a fight, he

knew that if she thought his life depended on it she would do

whatever Blomberg asked of her, and he had no way of

telling her that he would rather die than have her submit to

him. As it was, he had contemplated suicide as a means of

rescuing her from the threat of Halunke - but he did not

have the means for suicide here. And he had no idea where

Halunke was, or whom he was planning to strike at next.

Francois groaned as his frustration fired the physical pain

through his body. He had brought her to this, to a point

where she was trapped, hemmed in by Blomberg’s lechery

and Halunke’s revenge. If anything happened to her …

The worst of it was, if he hadn’t been so insanely foolish as

to let von Liebermann know how he felt about Max Helber, he might by now have discovered Halunke’s identity. As it was, during the three days he had spent at Helber’s Berlin apartment, Helber had seen to it that they were never alone

together; and though he had managed to push a note under

Helber’s door telling him that he was now prepared to do

whatever Helber wanted in return for the information he