Grey Wolves (4 page)

Madame Mercier paused to think. Marc was anxious, not just because he was terrified she’d maul him again, but because they’d spent a month planning this mission and Henderson had staked his unit’s reputation on a hunch that she’d be prepared to help them.

‘Those Boche bastards killed my father, uncle and both of my brothers in the Great War,’ Madame Mercier said finally. ‘The thought of them in
my
country telling
me
what to do makes my spine crawl. So, Mr Hortefeux, tell me what you need and I’ll do my best to help.’

For all Henderson knew Madame Mercier might pick up a telephone, speak to a friendly German and have them manacled inside a Gestapo cell within a few hours. A spy operating behind enemy lines has to balance risks. Trusting your life to a stranger is the biggest risk you can take, but a spy who takes no risks will get nothing done.

‘So why bring a boy along with you?’ Madame Mercier asked, as she sat in her armchair studying Marc and Henderson’s fake documents.

‘Nothing more suspicious than a man operating alone,’ Henderson explained.

‘But a terrible risk for him if you’re caught,’ she noted.

‘There’s thousands of kids in London getting bombed every day,’ Marc said. ‘I’d rather be out here doing something, than huddled in some tin shelter waiting to get blasted. We’ve been well trained and we’re all volunteers.’

‘That’s a fine attitude,’ Madame Mercier said, as she leaned forward and spread their fake documents out across her coffee table. ‘You need a Lorient zone permit and up-to-date ration and tobacco cards. If you get stopped in town with this lot, you’ll be arrested.’

Marc sighed. ‘So we can’t go into town?’

‘Go to the station first,’ Madame Mercier explained. ‘They issue temporary ration cards for newly arrived passengers. Then go straight across the street to the OT recruitment office. They’re desperate for men to work in construction on the U-boat bunkers. If you register for work, they’ll issue your zone permit. Once you have your zone permit, you can go to the main post office and register to get a permanent ration and tobacco card, plus a bicycle permit if you think you’ll need one.’

‘That sounds like the best part of a day spent standing in queues,’ Marc said miserably.

‘But we’ll get original copies of all the documents we need to forge if we’re sending a bigger team in,’ Henderson said gratefully. ‘The big question is, how do we get through security into town in the first place?’

Madame Mercier smiled. ‘I’m sure Klaus would much rather drive you into the station than stand in the sun chopping wood. When you have your documents, walk over to Le Chat Botté. I’ll arrange for your lunch and see if I can find someone who can help with your other requirements.’

‘You’re too kind,’ Henderson said, as he ran his knuckles along the back of Madame Mercier’s cat.

*

Lorient was well secured. All the minor roads into town were bricked off and traffic funnelled through three checkpoints on the main roads. There were two lines: a fifteen-minute line for the locals and a priority gate for German traffic.

Klaus drove a clattering Renault van that had been requisitioned from a butcher. Henderson got in the front passenger seat. Marc squatted on the floor in the rear compartment, horrified by crusts of blood and dried-out fat.

The town could have been any of a thousand small French cities, awash with grey stone and flaking paint that felt drab, even on this sunny morning. It seemed the occupiers had reduced life to a series of queues. Henderson saw queues for bread, queues for coffee and potatoes, queues at checkpoints. And because large queues bred resentment, there were small queues where you took a numbered ticket to join a bigger queue at a specified time later in the day.

The quietest place in town seemed to be the station. Lorient was the end of the line, with six platforms. But there were no trains and only one ticket window out of eight open for business. The Germans didn’t want civilians in Lorient so they’d cut trains down to one every three hours. The only lively parts of the station were a barber’s shop and the line for the public telephones.

Klaus led them through the station security checkpoint and took them straight to the head of a dozen-strong queue for temporary ration cards. The German’s presence implied authority and the woman behind the counter took Marc and Henderson’s false names and gave the briefest of glances at their ID before issuing ration cards with four days of coupons.

Klaus pointed out the offices of Organisation Todt (OT) across the square, before saying that it was time for him to return to barracks. OT was in charge of all major construction projects within Hitler’s empire, from autobahns and airports in Germany, to military defences, factories, prison camps and bunkers in the occupied territories.

It was a quasi-military organisation. Officers carried pistols and Nazi daggers and wore brown uniforms with swastikas and stripes bearing their ranks. OT workers ranged from Polish and African prisoners treated like slaves, through to skilled and relatively well-paid civilian construction workers.

The recruitment office smelled of floor polish and cigarette smoke. Men lined up before three counters, where names and details were taken. Beyond that, job applicants were stripped and examined by a doctor. At the far end of the hall was an X-ray machine, where each shirtless worker was checked for tuberculosis.

Along the walls were blackboards, with available jobs and application details chalked up:
Blacksmiths, carpenters, plumbers, translators and electricians are allowed to join the priority queue. Unskilled labourers must be aged between 18 and 55. Boys 13–17 will be taken as apprentices at one-third standard pay. All workers must sign two-year contracts.

Henderson was alarmed by what he saw, partly because he still had his gun and partly because he’d noticed that workers were being taken outside and loaded straight on to trucks to begin work.

‘I think we’ll have to risk doing without the zone passes,’ he whispered to Marc.

As he turned for the exit a brown uniform blocked his path. By the sound of his voice, he was a native Frenchman.

‘May I ask why you’re leaving, sir?’

‘I see the men are being shipped out straight away,’ Henderson explained. ‘I’d really like to go to the post office and collect my ration card first.’

‘What is your address?’ the man asked.

Henderson shook his head. ‘I’ve just come in on the train from Rennes to sign up.’

‘Then you and your son will be allocated accommodation in the workers’ barracks. Meals will be provided on site, and you’ll receive a ration card for time spent on leave. You can stay in the queue, there’s no reason to go to the post office.’

‘I’d also like to make a telephone call,’ Henderson said, though he knew it sounded weaselly.

‘Do you already have a Lorient zone pass?’

Henderson shook his head. ‘I just arrived.’

‘You’re not allowed to move freely in the Lorient zone without a Lorient zone pass. If you leave this building without a pass, I’ll be forced to arrest you and hand you over to the Gestapo for questioning.’

The tense conversation had attracted some attention, including that of a more senior officer. This one was tall and skinny. He was German, but his French was good.

‘Step away from the doors!’ the German yelled, pointing his arm towards a dilapidated table. ‘Spread your documents on the table.’

Marc’s nerves jangled as he followed Henderson up to the desk. The German took Henderson’s ID card and studied it carefully, before starting a round of rapid-fire questions designed to catch out liars.

‘What was your job in Rennes?’

‘Unemployed,’ Henderson said, giving an answer that he’d meticulously prepared before leaving Britain.

‘Your military status?’

‘I have army discharge papers,’ Henderson said, pointing to them on the table.

The lanky German took the pale-blue discharge document. This was vital for any Frenchman under the age of fifty. Unless you could prove that you weren’t in the military at the time France surrendered, you were regarded as a prisoner of war and could be sent to a labour camp in Germany.

‘Dishonourable discharge from military duty, 1938,’ the German said suspiciously. ‘What was your sin?’

‘Inappropriate firing of a gun in an enclosed space leading to the injury of a fellow soldier,’ Henderson explained.

The German read the rest of the story from the discharge document. ‘Served four months’ military detention, released 13-04-39. Show me your teeth.’

Henderson opened his mouth.

‘Those aren’t smoker’s teeth. Why have you got a tobacco card?’

The question was a trap. Everyone in France kept a tobacco card. Non-smokers gave their cigarettes away to family members or sold them, but technically your tobacco ration was only for personal use.

‘Maybe I should call the Gestapo,’ the German teased. ‘You’re clearly involved in black market tobacco trading.’

Henderson thought about offering a bribe, or pulling his gun. But both were risky options.

‘Fine, I’ll get back in the queue,’ Henderson said, before giving a cheeky Nazi salute. ‘Heil Hitler!’

‘I don’t like that smart mouth,’ the German said, as a few of the men in the recruiting line laughed. ‘I’m going to have to ask you a few more questions in my office.’

*

Marc and Henderson ended up on a bench in the office of a man who clearly wasn’t a major cog in the Nazi machine. There was a metal shelf unit and a small desk on which sat a vase containing three mini-swastika flags and some tattered silk flowers. Henderson hadn’t been searched, so he had his gun ready when the brown-uniformed officer came back in the room and made a big show of opening his briefcase.

‘How long have we got to sit here for?’ Marc asked.

The German didn’t reply. He just stared over the rims of his octagonal glasses as he took out bread and cheese wrapped in greaseproof paper. His expression said it all:
I’m messing with you because I can.
When he left, he locked the door again.

‘I could pick that cheap lock with my penis,’ Marc said contemptuously. ‘Why are we still sitting here?’

‘You need to learn patience,’ Henderson replied. ‘You saw where we are. There’s a guard on the main door. There’s a checkpoint on the station across the street. This isn’t a game, you know. One mistake and we’re big red splats machine-gunned up against a wall in some alleyway.’

The door opened again, but instead of the German it was a gravel-voiced Frenchwoman. She looked a bit of an old battleaxe, but she closed the door and spoke in a guilty whisper.

‘Hortefeux?’

Henderson nodded and the woman threw over an envelope.

‘Had to wait for old shit breath to go out for lunch. You needn’t have panicked at the door. Madame Mercier called ahead; I was all set to deal with you. I get zone passes for all the girls she brings in for her clubs. Everything you need is there, including ration cards. I’ve put your occupation as a waiter, so you should be able to move around the centre of town without too many questions asked.’

‘What happens when the beanpole gets back from lunch?’

The woman laughed. ‘Thinks he’s Hitler’s right-hand man, but he’s a jumped-up doorman. I’ll tell him that we had orders to put everyone on a truck. He’ll stamp his little boots, but he’s too lazy to make a fuss.’

‘And the other fellow on the door, the Frenchman,’ Marc asked. ‘Where’s he?’

‘I’ve set him straight,’ the woman said. ‘He takes a few francs from Madame Mercier, just like the rest of us. You need to get to Le Chat Botté. Someone will be waiting for you.’

The woman led them down a corridor towards the back of the building, and opened a door on to a wrought-iron fire escape. ‘Downstairs, go left. The road narrows into an alleyway that reeks of urine. Three minutes’ walk takes you to the entertainment district. You’ll find Le Chat Botté in the basement beneath Café Mercier. It won’t be open until this evening, so you’ll have to rap on the glass.’

‘Thank you
so
much,’ Henderson said.

The alleyway behind the OT office was desolate. No car would ever get through because rubbish spewed out of overflowing bins. Marc trod carefully through the filth, fearing broken glass or worse. There was an overwhelming muggy heat as they passed behind a laundry, with steam shooting out of vents and the sight of women working through the tiny barred slots above the pavement.

They backed up to the wall as a Kriegsmarine officer whizzed through on a motorbike, with a girl in polka dots clutching his waist. As they choked on its exhaust fumes, the alleyway opened into a little oasis.

The small Catholic chapel had a tiny graveyard and was enveloped on all sides by taller buildings. By the main arched door was a wooden bench, spattered with pigeon crap, on which sat a lanky German eating bread and cheese.

If he’d kept his head down Marc and Henderson might not have noticed, but the German was full of his own pomposity. He stood up, shouting an indignant, ‘My god!’

They couldn’t afford a noisy and protracted chase. Henderson thought about getting close and delivering a choke hold or knockout punch, but the German was going for his gun.

As Henderson reached towards his leather holster, Marc unsheathed his hunting-knife. In a single smooth movement the knife went from pocket to hand, then rotated through the air. It hit the German in the chest, puncturing his chest, just below the heart.

Henderson was stunned. The German had the gun in his shooting hand, but could raise it no higher as blood flooded his left lung and dribbled over his lower lip.

Marc closed in to finish the German off, but he’d already done enough. Henderson ran up to the chapel doors. He’d hoped to be able to drag the body inside, but three curious, smoking washerwomen turned towards him.

‘Afternoon, ladies,’ Henderson said smoothly. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb your break.’

He closed the door before the women had a chance to see what was going on outside. The German was flat out in the gravel, giving his last twitch.

‘I thought the knife would be quieter than the gun,’ Marc said, as he looked down and saw that he’d stepped in blood. ‘Aww, shit.’