Blue Madonna (30 page)

“We're awfully close,” I said.

“That's all the wire I have. I'd head back if I were you,” Topper said with a fierce grin. “This place will soon be crawling with Germans, followed by flying debris, I hope.”

“I, for one, would hate to miss the spectacle,” Kaz said. “But perhaps we could move back for a better view.”

“We should wait for the train,” Christine said, and issued a sharp order to her remaining men, who disappeared into the brush. “They will cover our escape. But we must try for the train.”

“Those
Hitlerjugend
bastards?” Topper said. She nodded. So did Kaz. So did I.

We waited.

Topper had run the detcord under the iron railing. It was pulled taut, looped around the stanchions every yard or so. All the Germans had to do was look in the right place, but they were focused on the railbed, not thinking about the round chambers on the side of the stonework. Two patrols swept up and down the viaduct, flashlight beams on the tracks, looking for dynamite under the steel rails. Shouts and commands echoed from the bridge, the lights fading as the Krauts walked back to where the train had halted. Maybe they thought they'd fought off the
Maquis
before charges could be set, or that it had been an ambush gone wrong.

“Look, it's the SS,” Kaz whispered. He was right. Under the bright moon, their dappled camouflage tunics stood out clearly. These patrols were from the
Hitlerjugend
, not the
Luftwaffe
flak crews or security troops. Who might have wondered where all the sandbags had gone.

“They must have halted the train when they heard the shooting and taken over the search,” Topper said, connecting the ends of the wire to the detonator.

“And now they will pay,” Christine whispered. No one moved back, but we did take cover behind the boulders and driftwood at the edge of the riverbank. The granite stonework shone in the moonlight like a giant beast straddling the river.

A sound. The scuff of a boot on stone. The snap of a small twig.

A heavier sound—the hissing chug of a locomotive.

From where we were, we couldn't see the train, but the mechanical sounds of the steam engine and the cars jolting forward told us it was getting closer. Topper grasped the detonator handle.

Shadows moved in front of us. Two, three men, making their way down the riverbank. The last of the patrol, perhaps. One of them turned to look at the bridge and the approaching train, which was picking up speed. He said something in a weary voice, which I imagined to be along the lines of,
Let's get the hell out of here
.

Then one of them knelt. He picked up the detcord and tugged at it. Topper grabbed hold of the wire, making sure the connections didn't come loose. Still no train on the bridge.

Now the three Germans were crouched low, rifles aimed forward, the lead man holding the detcord, letting it trail through his hand, trying not to give any warning of their approach, never thinking the demolition team would be so close.

I saw the flash of a knife. One of the Germans was about to slice the detcord.

A puff of steam close to the bridge, and in a second the train was in view, louder and faster.

Kaz and Christine stood, aiming their Welrod pistols at the three men. They fired.

The train pulled onto the bridge, the locomotive nearly to where the explosives were set.

One man dropped, the only noise the clatter of his rifle on stone. More shots, these audible now, soft
pop-pops
that felled another German.

Topper twisted the plunger.

The explosion was a blast of jolting sound echoing along the river: a core of flames blindingly bright for a split second, followed by black smoke belching from the hole as bits of stone and showers of burning debris spread out in front of us.

The last German standing looked dully at what was left of his hand, which had been blown apart by the detcord he'd been holding. Dogbite let him have a burst from his Thompson, ending the German's misery before it even registered.

The viaduct stood. The train started to cross the bridge, sparks flying as the engineer applied the air brake. But there was too much momentum, and as the locomotive continued on, the train seemed to pick up speed as if the engineer was racing to get over before the structure collapsed. As the dust settled, I could see the blast site more clearly. Everything looked intact.

The locomotive reached the center of the bridge, which held. Then, slowly, pieces of stone began to fall from the arch. The locomotive continued forward, the following cars wobbling as their steel wheels clacked over the rails. Finally, a large chunk of granite tumbled from under the railbed and fell into the river. A flatcar with two tanks slipped from the track, twisting and snapping its coupler, beginning a slow slide off the bridge. The wheels on the far side of the car almost caught and held onto the edge until the next car, and the next, smashed into it, starting a chain reaction that left the flatcar and four passenger cars shattered in the riverbed below. Bodies spilled out onto the rocks and were swept away in the water.

The tail end of the train ground to a halt, sparks flying as the emergency brakes were pulled. One more car tumbled over and burst into flames.

It was time to go.

Christine stood, her fists clenched as she shouted, “Coudray!” but the Germans could not hear her above the screams and cries of their injured and dying.

Chapter Thirty-Three

It was a
long hike back, and dawn was beginning to light the horizon as we returned to the château. The remaining
Maquis
had already vanished into the forest when we stumbled into the kitchen, exhausted, dirty, and hungry.

Sonya, Maurice, and three of the
Maquis
were dead. If this mission was ever written up, the report would say casualties were light, and the operation a qualified success. The bridge would be repaired, but we'd struck a deadly blow.

Still, five deaths weighed heavily.

We made ersatz coffee and scrounged for whatever food we could find. The kitchen was warm and the food welcome, but a night of killing had left us empty and in need of nourishment not to be found in the count's larder.

Juliet fetched Switch, Babcock, and Fawcett and brought them up to date.

“I'm sorry about Sonya,” Fawcett said. “She was a brave woman.”

“When are we getting out of here?” Switch asked. Topper stood, his fists ready, and Switch saw the wisdom in adding his reluctant condolences. Topper still looked ready to pummel him, and I wondered if he even remembered that getting Switch back in one piece would be good for the family business. All that seemed so far in the distant past.

“Tonight,” I said. “Kaz and I are taking Switch out tonight. Then we'll set something up for you two.”

“You're leaving us in the lurch?” Babcock said. “Fawcett and I have been here longer than Switch. And what about Juliet? She's all alone now.”

“Orders,” I said.

“And I'll be here,” Topper said. “Perhaps we'll all join the
Maquis
and wait for the cavalry.”

“That might be a good idea,” Count Vasseur said, entering the kitchen. “I have made a deal with Major Zeller. He will be here at nine o'clock with your former colleague Meyer.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Switch demanded. He spoke for us all.

“I telephoned Zeller last night,” the count said. “I told him I knew what he was after, and he could have all the paintings if he returned two things—my son and the wireless.”

“What did he say?” Juliet asked.

“That he was not certain he could meet my terms. I then told him I was ready to burn down the château and everything in it if he did not. He accepted my offer. Evidently your Sergeant Meyer has new identity papers and is working directly with Zeller as an
Abwehr
agent. All for the purpose of stealing the artwork, of course.”

“But what if he shows up with an armed guard?” I said.

“He will not,” Count Vasseur said, shaking his head emphatically. “Why would he throw away a chance at what he has wanted all along? With the Allies closing in, this is his moment. All he has to do is give me my son. I thought to ask for the wireless because it would have been foolish for Meyer to destroy it. Better for him to give it as a gift to his new employer.”

“How can you let him get away with his crimes, Count Vasseur?” Juliet said, her eyes glistening. “Adrien, then the two men here? Sonya, too, for that matter.”

“I know it is a difficult choice. I am devastated to hear that Sonya has been killed, but that is the way of war. If I could bring back the men Zeller has murdered, I would. But that is in the past. Now I can keep Frédéric alive, and you can have your wireless. It is not a good solution, but it is a solution.”

“What about the people who entrusted you with their paintings?” Babcock said.

“They are paintings, not lives. Besides, the owners may all have perished by now,” Count Vasseur said. “I think Christine should leave. There is no reason for Zeller to see her here.”

“I vote for leaving now myself,” Babcock said. “I'll take my chances with the
Maquis
. If you do get the wireless, make contact with us after all this is over. If any of you are still alive.”

“I'm with you,” Fawcett said. “I don't like the sound of this. Reminds me of Dieppe.” Dieppe was a disastrous raid on the French coast back in '42, where Canadian forces landed and were chewed up, half of them not making it back.

“What about you, Dogbite?” I asked.

“I might not be much sharper than a butter knife, but I can tell a whole lotta things might go bad right around nine o'clock, so I'll head for the hills with these boys. Feel more at home in the woods anyway.”

“We will leave now,” Christine said. “I can take you men to a safe place in the forest with the
Maquis
.” With that, she embraced the count. “I hope to find Frédéric safe at home with you when I return.”

We all shook hands, wishing Dogbite, Fawcett, and Babcock luck. Topper made arrangements to rendezvous with them in the forest the following day, wireless or not. He was the real Jedburgh, and he still had a job to do. Switch went to pack his gear, planning to watch from the edge of the woods to make sure he had an escape route in case things went south.

“I ain't being trapped like a rat underground,” he said.

“Just don't go too far,” I said.

“Don't worry, Billy. You're my meal ticket. You stay in one piece and get me back to England. Donnie and me are counting on it.”

“Are you sure we could not toss him out somewhere over the English Channel?” Kaz said, watching Switch leave.

“You boys deliver him safe and sound, or my old man will have my hide,” Topper said.

“Archie must be so proud,” I said, and sipped the chicory coffee, making believe it was the real thing. All I wanted to do was lie down and sleep for hours, but something told me I'd need to keep my wits about me for a while longer.

It was close
to nine. Topper was stationed at the end of the long driveway. If Zeller had troops with him, he'd fire warning shots, and we'd all scatter. Count Vasseur said he had a small supply of petrol and was ready to start a fire in the great hall if Zeller betrayed him. I believed the old guy, and I began to think maybe Zeller did, too.

Juliet and the count stood by the front entrance, Vincent at attention behind them. Kaz and I were inside, watching. Switch was who the hell knew where. I tried to square the fact that we were doing a deal with a Kraut officer the morning after we'd blown up a bunch of his pals on a train. But then I thought back to some of the deals we'd done with crooks at the Boston PD, and it felt a little more natural.

Five minutes past nine. I heard the crunch of tires on gravel. No warning shots. The sedan came into view, a big black Citroën Traction Avant. Zeller was planning on traveling in style. And hiding the rolled-up canvases in the spacious trunk.

The automobile came to a halt. Meyer stepped out, looking like a different man in his pressed pants, shined shoes, slicked-back hair, white shirt, and leather jacket. He opened the rear passenger door. Zeller slipped out, followed by a thin figure in tattered clothes who needed help to stand upright.

“Frédéric!” Count Vasseur gasped.

Zeller withdrew the wireless case from the backseat and a Walther pistol from his holster. He and Meyer stood in front of the count. “Tell me why I should not shoot you now,” Zeller said.

“Because you want the paintings, and I am ready to give them to you. All of them. That is my solemn promise as a Vasseur,” the count said. “How do you propose we proceed?”

“You are correct, count. I will get what I want, and so will you. Your son. And no one will ever suspect what you've been up to. Now for the arrangements: Meyer will remain inside with the wireless and your son. He will execute him at the first sign of trouble from any of you. My headquarters knows where I am, and should anything happen, you will be under immediate suspicion.”

“Of course,” Count Vasseur said. “Vincent will assist. Since you are aware of my other guests, I can tell you they all have fled. Except for two, who are waiting for the wireless.”

“They will help us. No firearms,” Zeller said, his own gun pointed straight at Juliet.

“Major,” I said from the doorway, hands held high, “perhaps we should all put away our weapons. It will go faster that way.” Kaz stood next to me, his hand resting on his holstered Webley.

“You must be Sergeant Boyle. And the baron, I see. No others?”

“Gone, as the count told you,” Juliet said. “Let's get Frédéric inside. Is he hurt?”

“A mild sedative,” Zeller said. “To make him more manageable. Pistols will remain holstered. But Meyer will keep his trained on the boy.”

We agreed. Juliet would stay with them. Meyer took the count's son into the great hall and laid him on a couch before sitting down, the wireless between his legs and a revolver cocked and aimed at Frédéric.

“How do you like your new boss?” I asked.

“He pays better,” Meyer said. “Better than the Morgans, even. Now get to work.”

“Yes, come, Count Vasseur,” Zeller said, clapping his hands eagerly. “I cannot wait to see your hiding place. You've been most clever.”

“As have you,” the count said, gracing Zeller with a small bow. “I assume you have known about the paintings for a while?”

“Since I came to Dreux from Paris,” he said. “We picked up an art dealer who foolishly returned from Tours, where he had a number of hiding places. He confirmed you had taken a shipment on behalf of Jewish friends. It did not take much persuasion.”

“Ah, yes, there is always someone who will talk, isn't there? Come.” The count led us down the now-familiar steps, through the Druid temple, and into the long tunnel that led to the hidden chamber.

“Ah, the lair of the White Giant,” Zeller said. “A convenient fairy tale to mask your activities from the locals. Such weak minds they have.”

“I agree,” Count Vasseur said. “The old stories have their hold over us.” He led us into a darkened section, and Vincent flicked on his flashlight. Zeller produced one as well. We passed under the granite lintels and came to the dead end with the old empty barrels.

“Here?” Zeller said. “I could never find a thing in this tunnel. It's sealed off.”

“You underestimate the ingenuity of the Vasseurs, Major,” the count said. “Vincent,
s'il vous plaît
.”

Vincent reached into the crevice and began the process of opening the stone door. He pushed against it, the scent of grease and oil rising as he smoothly rolled it aside. Zeller shined his flashlight inside.

“Ach, du lieber Gott im Himmel,”
Zeller whispered as his beam played across the canvases. Then he regained his composure, and ordered us in ahead of him. “Not that I don't trust you gentlemen, but please stack those barrels in front of the door. To ensure it doesn't close by accident, of course.”

Kaz and I complied as Zeller spent a few seconds inspecting the paintings. He looked at the stretchers, nodding sagely as he ran his fingers against the grain of the wood.

“So your paintings in the
château
are fakes?” he asked, studying
Blue Madonna
. “This wood is obviously centuries old.”

“Vincent is quite talented,” Count Vasseur said, nodding. “He has fooled experts.”

“Yes, yes. I am quite impressed. Now hurry and remove these canvases from the stretchers.” Zeller produced pliers from his pocket and handed them to Vincent. To save time, he also pulled his knife from its sheath to begin cutting the larger canvases. “You two, help him!”

Soon we had about a quarter of the canvases done and rolled up. Zeller ordered us to take them to the car and to tell Meyer all was well. For now.

We did as we were told and returned to find Zeller and the count arguing over
Blue Madonna
. Oddly enough, it was about whether or not to take it out of the frame.

“Please, Major, it is such a small painting. You can hide it easily. I would hate to see the canvas damaged.” Count Vasseur held it at arm's length, studying it one last time.

“Very well,” he said. “I must agree with you. It is too lovely to risk. We can wrap it in one of these coverings. For the moment, enjoy it while you can.”

Vincent loaded us up with rolled canvases while the count stood in quiet contemplation of the small masterpiece. With his back to Zeller, he gave us a quick wink and nodded toward the door. We hustled out, and as we crossed the threshold, the count dropped
Blue Madonna
.

Zeller sputtered in anger as the count backed up, waving his hands apologetically. Vincent vaulted forward, hitting Zeller with his shoulder and sending him reeling against the stone wall as Count Vasseur ran out, Vincent on his heels, moving as fast as his injured legs allowed. Turning on a dime, Vincent reached into the groove at the base of the entryway, where the hidden door moved on the metal track. A quick metallic
snap
, and an iron door shuddered down, slamming into the stone inches from his hand.

The pounding and the shouts began immediately, muffled by the heavy iron door and surrounding stone. Count Vasseur smiled and clapped Vincent on the back.

“But the paintings,” I said, wondering what exactly we'd gained.

“As I said, Vincent has fooled experts,” the count said.

“All that artwork?” Kaz said, hardly believing what we were hearing.

“Oh, yes. He has been very busy these past years,” the count said, patting a beaming Vincent on the shoulder. “Now bring those paintings along, and we will speak with the treacherous Meyer. It is vital that he leave unharmed.”

“What about Zeller?” I asked.

“It appears he should have paid better attention to the fairy tale,” Count Vasseur said. “Remember the White Giant, who promises you all the time in the world with the treasure you seek?” He and Vincent were all smiles as we made our way back to the grand hall. All I could think of was the sound of that door slamming shut.