The Eden Inheritance (20 page)

Paul was the first to move. He turned his hand over, squeezed her fingers lightly, then placed her hand on the steering wheel.

‘I think perhaps we ought to go back to Savigny now,' he said.

Two nights later Paul came to her suite as she was getting ready to go down for dinner.

‘Charles isn't here, is he?' he said softly when she opened the door.

‘No – he's gone on down to discuss business with his father.'

‘I thought I heard him going downstairs and I wanted to speak to you. I have to go out tonight.'

‘Now?'

‘No – later. After dinner. If it looks like being a long session I'll excuse myself by saying I have some work to prepare. But if there should be any questions asked I'd be grateful if you'd cover for me.'

‘Yes, of course.'

She knew better than to ask why he had to go out, what he planned to do. But when he had gone again she looked out of the window. It was dark already but a clear night, the stars shining in the velvet blackness and a moon making the beginnings of a frost shimmer on the bushes. A perfect night for some kind of resistance operation. A perfect night to die.

Kathryn didn't know why she should have heard those words so clearly in her mind. She only knew that a shiver ran through her and a feeling of dread began to close in. But this time, she knew, her fear was not so much for herself, for the family, or even for Guy. It was all for the man who called himself Paul Curtis.

A few minutes before half past eleven Paul quietly closed the door of his room behind him and crept along the passage and down the stairs. The château was dark and silent but for the occasional settling of a timber and he blessed the luck that had sent the family early to bed this evening. Not that it was only luck, of course – they were all tired from the long hours they were working – but he had not wanted to trust to that. He had made sure his window was unlatched – the creaking of the heavy catch would have been a dreadful giveaway on such a cold, crisp night – and tested again the heavy creeper covering the wall outside which he had checked out as a possible escape route the first night he had been in the room. He did not relish the prospect of having to descend that way unless it was absolutely imperative. It might take his weight, but then again it might not. But at least tonight he had been spared having to find out. When the house was quiet he had changed into a black roll-neck sweater and a pair of dark corduroy trousers and rubbed charcoal over his face before checking the pockets of his jacket to make sure his torch, gun, and a hip flask filled with brandy were there. Now, carrying his shoes in his hand, he made his way out of the château by the back door.

The air was still and crisp and moonlight illuminated the garden, making it easy to find his way across the central courtyard to the outbuilding where his bicycle was stored. It was, he thought, a perfect night for flying. He had been almost certain, even before he had tuned in to the BBC that evening, that the operation would be on and the coded message which he and he alone understood had confirmed it. ‘
Le bébé s'appelle Jacques
' might sound like incomprehensible rubbish but to Paul it made perfect sense. Tonight a Lysander would be leaving England with his fully trained radio operator and a demolition expert to join his team. He must be there to meet it.

Adrenaline surged through his veins and he pedalled faster than he needed to, watching the dark sky for any arcing headlights that might warn of a ponce patrol and listening for the sound of engines. All was quiet. Again he ran over the details of the operation in his mind, details he had planned and set in motion by his visit to the doctor's surgery in Périgueux two days earlier. His men were briefed and ready – Albert, a fanner who owned a pickup truck that was to be used to ferry the two new arrivals to their safe houses, Jean Lussac, the stationmaster, who hated to be left out of anything and two local lads whom Albert had vouched for to act as lookouts. They had only had to listen to the BBC as he had done to know that tonight was the night. Just as long as they had heard it, he thought wryly. He didn't much fancy having to meet the Lysander all by himself with no way of transporting the new agents. But at least they would be put down in comparative comfort, not dropped by parachute into a ploughed field as he had been when he had first come to France.

As he approached the field selected as a landing ground Paul saw the pick-up truck parked, as planned, in a gateway, and felt a surge of relief. Albert, at least, had heard the message and presumably would have passed it on. Paul dismounted, laying his bicycle against the hedge, and approached the van.

‘You're here, then.'

‘Yes, but Jean won't be able to make it. He's caught flu.'

‘Never mind. We'll manage without him. It's a perfect night. The pilot shouldn't have any trouble following the landmarks if he's done his homework properly. They'll be on time. I should think.'

‘As long as they can keep out of the way of the flak.'

Albert was a dour man, though a reliable one, who hated the Boche with a fervour that had stirred him out of his mundane existence into active resistance. At the moment his mouth was full of bread and cold sausage so that his words came out thickly.

Paul flicked his lighter and checked his watch.

‘Let's get the landing site marked out. You can finish your supper while we're waiting.'

Albert packed the remains of his bread and sausage into one pocket of his coat and a flask of coffee into the other. He and the two village lads, who had climbed into the truck with him whilst they waited, joined Paul and together they crossed the fields to the one they had chosen for the landing strip. Bounded on three sides by hedges, with a line of trees at its far end, it was reasonably flat but low enough for the flares to be invisible from any direction except overhead. Paul and Albert set out the lamps that Albert had brought in his truck in the shape of an ‘L', whilst the two lads took up positions from which they could keep a good lookout. There was nothing to do now but wait.

They talked little, Albert stoically finishing his sausage and Paul taking a few swigs of stomach-warming brandy. Paul checked his watch again – a few minutes after midnight. The tension of waiting prickled over his skin. Somehow it was almost impossible to imagine the plane ever arriving. If it did not he would have to risk another direct contact with London, he supposed, but he did not like using his radio more than he could help. He was not fast enough at it and every minute spent transmitting was another minute when he might be detected. He didn't care much for himself but he did care about the danger to which it would expose his circuit and most especially the danger to the de Savignys – and Kathryn. With an effort he pushed the thought aside. No point worrying about it yet – worry about it tomorrow when he knew for certain something had gone wrong with the drop.

And then, just when he had almost given up hope, he heard the unmistakable sound of an aircraft engine. He thrust the hip flask back into his pocket with fingers gone stiff from the cold.

He signalled to Albert, lit the lamp closest to him and grabbed his torch, flashing the agreed letter in Morse Code, whilst Albert, moving swiftly for once in spite of his bulk, hurried to light the other two.

The Lysander came overhead, skimming the tops of the trees. Paul signalled again, the Lysander replied, and its landing light blazed into life. Paul watched it make its circuit and come in in a descending turn towards the first of the lamps. It seemed to be going very fast. Paul found himself holding his breath and hoping fervently that the field was long enough. Then wheels touched grass, the Lysander bounced once, then steadied, braking into wind, turning around the lamp furthest from it and taxiing back across the field.

The hatch opened and the pilot's head emerged.

‘Hi, fellas. Nice landing site.'

Simultaneously the first of the two passengers scrambled from the plane, revolver at the ready, and the second handed down the baggage to him. Scarcely were they clear of me aircraft than the pilot called a farewell, closed the hatch and put on full power. He took off, skiniming the hedges, and Paul approached the newcomers.

‘Welcome. I am Paul Curtis.'

‘I'm Jacques – your radio operator. This is Maurice.'

‘Good. We'd better get moving, though, in case anyone spotted the aircraft. Albert here will take you to a temporary safe house. I'll be in touch shortly.'

They made their way back across the field to where Albert's truck was parked and piled inside. The engine coughed to life and Paul watched it disappear down the lane before recovering his bicycle from the hedge. The two village lads who had acted as lookouts had already gone, sure-footed shadows swallowed up by the darkness.

So far so good. The operation had passed off more smoothly than he had dared hope. Paul mounted his bicycle and started up the lane in the direction of the château. The silence of the night was unbroken and he began to relax. He pedalled on, unaware of just how close he was to disaster.

The German patrol vehicle must have been coasting down the hill with its engine and headlamps switched off. Why it should have been doing so he never knew but afterwards he could not imagine any other reason why he should not have heard its approach. It rounded the bend without warning, a dark, squat bulk in the moonlight. Without stopping to think Paul threw both himself and his bicycle into the hedge, but he knew with a cold certainty, that transcended the sharp gut-churning fear that they must have seen him. The headlamps came on full beam, shockingly bright, as he scrambled through the hedge. Twigs tore at his coat, he wrenched himself free and rolled into the long frosty grass, inching along on his stomach. Then he heard the car door open and the shouts in German: ‘ Here! Just here! It's a bicycle!'

His heart was pounding, sweat pouring down his face. He crawled on along the perimeter of the field Not far ahead of him was another hedge, dividing this field from the next. If he could get through it perhaps there was a chance for him. The only alternative he could see was a small wood at the far side of the field. Beyond it, he knew, was a river and the outskirts of the de Savigny estate. But the field between was an open expanse of no man's land. He'd never get across if he simply made a run for it, and even if he did he would be leading the Nazis direct to the château. No, there was nothing for it but to attempt to stop his pursuers. He did not know how many of them there were, didn't know how many he could get before they got him, but there were six bullets in his gun.

Paul rolled closer to the hedge, adopted a crouching position, drew his gun out of his pocket and released the safety catch. The first German emerged from the shadow of the hedge and without a moment's hesitation Paul fired. Even from this position and at this distance his aim was excellent; he had been shooting since he was a boy and he had a natural eye for it. The first German fell with a startled scream, clutching his stomach. Another German blundered through the hedge and Paul fired again. The first shot missed or merely winged him, Paul was not sure which, and he spun round firing back indiscriminately. Machine-gun bullets raked the grass and Paul felt a sudden sharp pain in his arm followed by total numbness. He froze, merging into the shadows. The German approached along the line of the hedgerow, gun at the ready, but he did not fire again. He thinks he got me, Paul thought. He waited, forcing himself to keep absolutely still, until the German was so close he could make out his fleshy features in the moonlight. Then he pulled the trigger.

The German crashed to theground with scarcely a sound, shot through the heart. Paul waited a few moments. Were there anymore of them? But there were no more shouts from the direction of the lane, only the groans of the first man he had shot threshing about in the grass. Paul knew he did not dare leave him alive. He crossed to him and without grving:himself time to think about what he was doing shot him in the head. The man jerked once and was still.

Paul looked around. His heart was hammering and he was as out of breath as if he had just run a mile. Lucky for him there had been only two of them, but he had to get away before reinforcements arrived.

His first instinct was to make a run for it across the fields but he knew he must not leave his bicycle. One bicycle here in the country was very like another but there was always the risk it might be identified. Somehow he crawled back through the hedge and ran up the lane to where the scout car had come to a stop. The engine was still running and the doors swinging open. He reached inside and switched off both engine and lights. It wouldn't be long before it was found in any case but the less attention it attracted the more precious time he would gain.

He lifted the bicycle out of the ditch and mounted it with difficulty. His arm was throbbing violently now and his fingers were sticky with blood that was pouring down. Gritting his teeth he began to ride, wobbling badly, along the road back to Savigny.

Kathryn had been unable to sleep. For a long while she had lain staring into the darkness wondering what Paul was up to, and once she thought she heard the sound of a plane overhead.

Beside her Charles was snoring gently – a habit Kathryn found repulsive these days. She pushed aside the covers and got out of bed, reaching for her kimono and pulling it on. The bare boards of the bedroom floor beyond the rug struck cold; she found her slippers, pushed her feet into them and crossed to the window.

Bright moonlight illuminated the parkland and Kathryn glanced up at the sky. No sign of a plane now, just the stars shining brightly and a scattering of high cloud. For a long while she stood there, looking out and thraking about Paul. What he had told her – or rather
not
told her – about the fate of his wife and child had affected her deeply and she found herself wondering about them too. It was difficult to imagine that hard, seemingly nerveless man as a loving husband and father, yet he had cared for them very deeply, she was certain, and grieved for them with an intensity that was almost beyond her comprehension. With something of a shock Kathryn realised just how limited was her own emotional experience. She loved Guy, of course, with the deep protective and proud love of a mother, but that was perhaps the extent of it She had thought she loved Charles, but that love had died, not in an explosion of pain but rather petered out like a damp squib, leaving only regret and resentment that he was not the man she had thought him to be and probably never had been. Otherwise her emotions were mostly negative, futile ones – loneliness, longing and, since the war had come, anger and fear. Measured against Paul's obvious depth of feeling they seemed shallow and selfish.