Grey Wolves (22 page)

Rosie ignored PT’s pleas and turned abruptly towards the kitchen. ‘I’ll get you the cold flannel.’

*

Two hours after Marc heard his name called, the roles were reversed. It was Madame Mercier’s time to leave, along with the rest of the restaurant and club owners.

‘Don’t get upset,’ she told Marc. ‘I have connections. There’s no good reason for them to hold you here.’

Marc had spent long enough in the cellar to think a few chilling thoughts, but on balance he still suspected his being held back was part of some administrative cock-up. After giving Madame Mercier an arm up, he burrowed into his trouser pocket and pulled out a scrunched-up page from a Mamba Noir waiter’s pad. ‘Give that to my dad as soon as you see him,’ Marc whispered. ‘Joel has some documents he needs to collect.’

Madame Mercier nodded as she pushed the paper inside her blouse. When the door of the cellar slammed, Marc found himself alone with only spots of dry blood and two overflowing buckets of urine to remind him of the former occupants.

With the cellar silent, he overheard Madame Mercier and the other owners getting lectured in the courtyard.

‘All places that sell alcohol to French people will remain closed for one week. The curfew will remain at nine p.m. in the centre of town. It is the responsibility of bar and club owners to ensure that French workmen do not become violent or excessively drunk. If there are any more attacks on Germans by people under the influence, the owner of the bar where the attacker was drinking and the people who served them the alcohol will be held responsible. However, staff and owners who provide information that is useful to the Gestapo will be looked upon favourably.’

Marc understood what this meant: none of the owners could guarantee how their customers would behave. Every waitress and bar worker in Lorient would have to start snitching for the Gestapo or risk getting locked up the next time one of their customers got into trouble.

‘We are all working towards peace and civility in the Lorient zone,’ the Gestapo officer concluded. ‘We shall be visiting your premises regularly to collect reports on all signs of suspicious or anti-German activity.’

*

It was nearly six p.m. by the time Edith had the cart back in the stable, made sure all the horses had enough food and water and walked across to Mamba Noir. They’d been allowed to open up for German customers only, but dinner service didn’t begin until seven and there wasn’t a single customer in the upstairs bar. She found Henderson and Madame Mercier clearing up the mess the Gestapo had left in the office.

‘Your delicate package was safely delivered,’ Edith told Henderson. ‘Did Marc get out?’

Henderson looked crestfallen at the mention of his name. ‘I phoned Gestapo HQ to ask if I could bring him some things or visit him, but they told me to stay away. Oberst Bauer was here earlier. He more or less threatened to have Marc locked up for black market trading if I didn’t provide him with information.’

Edith looked alarmed. ‘Do you think they know something about the trains?’

‘I did wonder, when Madame Mercier and Marc both ended up in custody,’ Henderson said. ‘But it seems they’re using the murder as an excuse for a general clampdown. Marc and I took jobs at Mamba Noir because it’s where we have the best chance of hearing what important people have to say. Now the Gestapo are targeting me for exactly the same reason.’

‘They ransacked my house and killed Persil,’ Madame Mercier said.

It took Edith half a second to remember that Persil was Madame Mercier’s slightly scary black cat.

‘I haven’t been home,’ Madame Mercier continued, breaking into sobs. ‘My neighbour said he’ll find her and bury her in the garden, but I can’t face going back there.’

Edith felt awkward as she stood in the office doorway. She’d didn’t go in to comfort Madame Mercier because even in her current state she’d probably still throw a fit if Edith put her manure-crusted boots on the antique rug. Instead, Henderson sent her to the bar to get a glass of red wine.

When Edith got back, Madame Mercier had settled into her office chair. Henderson passed over the glass of wine and a bundle of papers to take her mind off things.

‘I think I’ve got them back in order, but if you’ll just check through.’

As Henderson turned away, he saw Edith making a discreet
come here
gesture. He followed her out to the empty bar, where she spoke in a whisper.

‘I spoke with my friend who works at the laundry. She said that Germans are expected to do their own laundry in the barracks, or pay to have it done individually.’

Henderson looked baffled. ‘Why am I talking to you about laundry?’

‘The itching powder,’ Edith said. ‘You saw Marc last night, scratching like crazy after he rubbed two little grains on to his skin.’

‘He should have gone through me before asking you to make contact with outsiders.’

Edith looked hurt and didn’t mention that Marc had deliberately gone behind Henderson’s back because he’d been so dismissive about the itching powder.

‘I’ve known Natasha for
ever
,’ Edith said. ‘She was one of Madame Mercier’s girls until she had a bad abortion.’

‘Just because you know someone doesn’t necessarily mean you can trust them,’ Henderson said.

‘Natasha hates the Boche,’ Edith said. ‘Her husband’s a prisoner in Austria somewhere and her little boy got knocked down and killed by a drunken Kriegsmarine officer in his Mercedes. Ask Madame Mercier if you don’t believe we can trust her. And I’m not stupid you know: I may only be twelve, but I understand how important security is. I talked everything through with Marc before doing anything.’

Henderson was impressed with Edith’s clear thinking, even if he didn’t agree with everything she said. ‘So what did this Natasha say?’

‘It actually looks quite easy to do. Apparently, when a U-boat comes into port they send a big load of sheets, towels, foul-weather gear and stuff like that to the laundry. After the main wash, they have to add this special green de-lousing powder that the Kriegsmarine gives them. All Natasha has to do is go into the store room and mix our itching powder in with the German powder.’

‘How many people have access to the store room? Could the sabotage easily be traced back to Natasha?’

Edith looked uncertain. ‘I don’t know, but I’m sure we can work something out.’

‘I’ve got a lot on my mind right now,’ Henderson said. ‘But I suppose the powder did bring Marc out in one heck of a rash. Give me until tomorrow to think about it, OK?’

*

A Gestapo guard made Marc carry the overflowing urine buckets out of the cellar, and it was impossible not to get splashes over his boots and the bottom of his trousers. After that he got pushed into a tiny windowless cell on the first floor. He’d had nothing to eat or drink since the night before so he eagerly drank a mouthful of the watery broth they brought an hour later, only to find that it had been heavily seasoned with pepper and so much salt that it burned his lips.

Afternoon turned to evening as he sat in the unlit cell, desperate for water, listening to boots in the corridor outside. He started feeling nervous, imagining that they’d forgotten about him. After several hours he felt like he was going to pass out and banged on the door.

‘
Please
get me a drink,’ he begged, when a woman opened a flap in his door.

‘Look up above your head,’ the woman said.

For a moment Marc thought he’d missed some kind of tap. But all he saw was a pair of metal clasps.

‘If you bang on that door again I’ll have them come by and hook you up there by your wrists,’ the woman said, before slamming the flap.

It was seven at night before the door finally opened. A guard took him to the same room where he’d been with Madame Mercier the night before. Oberst Bauer sat at the desk, with a clear jug of water in front of him. There were chunks of ice and an orange hue where the surface caught the sunlight. It was the most beautiful thing Marc had ever seen.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ Bauer said, as he fiddled with his slim black tie. ‘I’ve only just come back on duty. But boy, isn’t it
hot
today? I’ve been drinking buckets!’

Bauer slid a piece of paper across the desk.

‘Can you read?’

The statement was typewritten on a single sheet of paper. There was only one paragraph:

I, Marc Hortefeux, confess to trafficking black market produce in the Lorient Secure Zone on behalf of Brigitte Mercier, the owner of Mamba Noir and other establishments in the area.

Signed

Date

‘Sign and you shall be released,’ Bauer said, before chinking the glass jug with the end of his fountain pen. ‘And, of course, you can drink all you like.’

‘What will happen to Madame Mercier?’ Marc asked.

Bauer raised one eyebrow. ‘You need to be a good deal more concerned about what will happen to you. Do you know what my favourite part of an interrogation is?’

‘What?’ Marc asked sourly.

‘It’s when someone is so badly broken that you have to do
nothing
,’ Bauer said. ‘People become so scared of you that they go down on their knees and beg. They see my face and soil themselves in pure terror. Try to imagine that, Marc. Try to imagine being so scared of me, that I just have to walk into a room to utterly humiliate you.’

Marc was scared, but tried to think straight. The weird thing was, the Gestapo had absolute power. They didn’t hold trials, there were no appeals. If they wanted to arrest Madame Mercier, torture her, shoot her, the only thing stopping them was her connections with powerful men in other branches of the German military. A slip of paper signed by a thirteen-year-old boy didn’t change any of that.

‘Why do you need me to sign anything?’ Marc asked. ‘What difference does my word make?’

Bauer shot up from the desk. ‘Do not question me,’ he shouted. ‘The only reason you ever need for a question I ask is,
because I said so
.’

He effortlessly shoved Marc back against the wall, kneed him in the stomach then swung him around. After bending Marc over, Bauer squeezed his head against the desktop with one hand, pulled a thick bracelet out of his suit pocket and slid it over Marc’s wrist.

When Bauer released a metal pin from the top of the bracelet, jagged metal jaws clamped Marc’s wrist with bone-crushing force. His fingers tensed and the excruciating pain went up to his shoulder.

‘Get it off,’ Marc screamed. ‘Please.’

‘If I leave it on until morning you’ll lose your hand,’ Bauer explained. ‘It’s a wonderful device. Made hundreds of years ago. Quite rare, but still effective, don’t you think?’

‘Oh god,’ Marc wailed, as Bauer backed away. ‘Get it off me. Please, I’ll sign it. I’ll sign anything you want.’

Now that Bauer had let go, Marc was free to move. He tried pulling off the clamp, but moving it just made the jaws sink deeper into his wrist.

‘Take it off,’ Marc bawled. ‘Please take it off.’

Bauer smiled as he pulled a clockwork key out off his jacket pocket. ‘One word of defiance when I take it off and I’ll put it back on for an hour.’

‘Anything,’ Marc sobbed. ‘Please.’

Bauer inserted the large key into the bracelet. It took several turns to pull back the powerful spring that clamped the jaws.

‘Sign it,’ Bauer shouted.

Blood poured down Marc’s hand as he grabbed the fountain pen and scratched his name on the confession.

‘Nice job,’ Bauer said, as he swept the confession away before Marc dripped blood on it. ‘Take a drink if you’d like one.’

Marc tipped up the jug, smearing blood all over the glass as he guzzled half a litre of water in six massive gulps. He felt ashamed that he’d given in so quickly, but he tried to rationalise it. His confession did little real harm to Madame Mercier and he’d bought himself a ticket home.

‘Theiss, get in here now,’ Bauer shouted, as he leaned out into the hallway.

A slim and rather nervous Gestapo officer raced into the room and saluted before Bauer addressed him in German, unaware that Marc understood every word.

‘Get the boy a bandage, we don’t want him dripping on our nice polished floors. Clear up the mess. Take special care with my pen and put oil on the bracelet. When you’re done, take the boy downstairs and process his paperwork. I want him on the first train to Rennes in the morning.’

‘Yes, Herr Oberst,’ Theiss nodded.

Rennes was the regional capital more than a hundred kilometres away. Marc’s head whirled, but he couldn’t say anything without giving away the fact that he spoke German.

‘It’s important that none of the locals see where he is going,’ Bauer told his colleague. ‘Madame Mercier seems to be fond of the boy, and I think his father might also be a useful source of information. So it’s good to keep him under our thumb, but we’re chronically short of cells here.’

Thiess took Marc’s signed confession, along with a couple of printed forms. He noticed that one box hadn’t been filled in.

‘You haven’t put the length of his sentence, Herr Oberst.’

‘Six months,’ Bauer said, but changed his mind, turning back as he headed out of the room. ‘Actually, scrub that, Theiss. Make it a year to be on the safe side.’

Friday 4 July 1941

Lieutenant Commander Finch was taking
Madeline II
on her fifth round trip between Porth Navas and the Brittany coast near Lorient. Luck had held for the first four runs, but the fifth seemed cursed.

The right engine blew while they were still in British waters, and the corvette sent to escort them on the voyage south had been called away to pick up survivors from a downed merchant ship. Sailing unescorted, they’d been spotted by Swordfish biplanes from a Royal Navy aircraft-carrier and watched its torpedo miss the bow by less than five metres.

This sense that everything that could go wrong would go wrong came to a peak when a storm brewed up an hour before they were due to liaise with
Istanbul
. It was mid-afternoon, but the sky was the colour of slate. The rain was almost vertical as the narrow craft bucked on two-and-a-half-metre waves.