Citadel (60 page)

He shook his head. ‘America.’

‘I see.’

‘My intention is to close up the house.’ He fixed Authié with a sharp look. ‘I would like you, therefore, to return to Carcassonne. To resume the investigations for which I engaged you in the first instance.’

Authié was surprised, though he kept his expression impassive. He wondered what had changed. De l’Oradore had suspended his search for the Cathar treasure, after the Nazis had invaded the
zone libre
, without explanation. For nearly two years he had not mentioned it. His interests appeared to have shifted.

‘I thought you were of the opinion that there was no value in continuing to excavate the area around Montségur or Lombrives?’

‘There is a suggestion,’ de l’Oradore said, ‘that a Languedocien scholar, one of the significant authorities on the history of the region, might have information. It could influence where we look next. I want you to find him, Authié. See if there is any substance to this rumour.’

‘How has this new information come to us?’

‘That bookseller of yours. Saurat.’

Authié narrowed his eyes, remembering the strange man with his high-pitched voice and his dark bookshop in Toulouse.

‘Saurat?’ he said. ‘Is it possible I could talk to him myself?’

‘I regret he is no longer with us. He was arrested in Lyon. Helping the partisans, it seems. He was very helpful, however. The information he shared seems credible.’

Authié was not convinced, but he kept his expression neutral. He was aware of the reputation of Hauptsturmführer Barbie, head of the Gestapo in Lyon. Many suspects would say anything, true or false, to bring their interrogation to an end.

‘There is a transcript of the conversation,’ de l’Oradore added, perhaps sensing Authié’s scepticism. ‘If that would be useful.’

‘It would, thank you.’ There was nothing to be gained by voicing his true opinion or going against de l’Oradore’s orders.

‘This scholar Saurat mentioned, is he attached to the university in Toulouse?’

‘An author rather than an academic, I gather.’

‘I see,’ Authié said again. ‘Do you have a name? An address?’

De l’Oradore pulled an envelope from his pocket. ‘He’s called Audric S. Baillard. I’ve heard of him, in fact. Quite an expert on Ancient Egypt. Wrote a biography of Champollion, the man who first deciphered hieroglyphic text.’ He paused. ‘Baillard lives in some tiny village in the Pyrenees. Los Seres.’ He handed the envelope to Authié. ‘It’s all here. I can’t imagine he’ll be hard to find; he’s an old man, judging by the date of publication of most of his books. He might also know something about a book I am most interested in acquiring. Extremely interested. To complete part of my collection here, you understand. Medieval. Perhaps with the symbol of a labyrinth on the cover, distinctive. I have had these notes prepared for you. To help the process.’ He fixed Authié with a look. ‘I would be most appreciative of any information. However you see fit to acquire it. Do you understand me, Authié?’

Authié took the heavy cream envelope and put it in his breast pocket. ‘I do.’

De l’Oradore held his gaze for a moment longer, then glanced away. ‘I have spoken to your superior officer, who is prepared to release you immediately. I have arranged transport south for Friday. Bastille Day, rather appropriate, I thought. The announcement has already been given to the radio stations.’

‘Announcement?’

‘That you are taking over the battle against the Resistance. Who better than a local man? Take Laval with you.’ He gave a slight smile, then stood up. ‘Congratulations on your promotion, Major Authié.’

Authié also got to his feet, impressed by the extent of de l’Oradore’s influence.

‘I hope to live up to your faith in me,’ he said.

‘I hope so too.’ De l’Oradore paused. ‘I know you have made several visits to the south in recent weeks, Authié.’

‘I have.’

‘Satisfactory?’

‘Effective, certainly.’

‘Will you be pleased to return for good, I wonder?’

Authié met his cool, appraising gaze. They both knew he had no choice. It would have made no difference if he hadn’t wanted to return to the Midi. But he took care over his answer all the same.

‘I have very much enjoyed my time in Chartres, but of course I am happy to do whatever best serves our cause.’

‘Quite right,’ said de l’Oradore. From the slight smile on his face, Authié knew he had said the right thing.

Perhaps to underline Authié’s new position, de l’Oradore showed him through the dimly lit hall to the front door himself, rather than ringing for the housekeeper.

‘Keep me informed, Authié. Send any communications via the normal route. I shall be travelling, of course, but any message will get to me, even if it takes longer than usual.’

‘Of course.’ Authié put on his hat. ‘I am grateful for your support, monsieur.’

De l’Oradore opened the front door on to the dark street. No street lamps; the blackout was rigorously observed after months of night-time bombardments on Luftwaffe aircraft at Champhol airfield to the northeast of Chartres. In the moonlight, the twin spires of the magnificent cathedral stood tall against the sky.

‘By the way,’ de l’Oradore said, ‘Saurat said something else of interest before he died.’

‘He did?’

‘About that alleged fourth-century text you brought me. The Codex.’

Authié became still. ‘Alleged?’

‘It appears it was a forgery,’ de l’Oradore continued casually. ‘Saurat admitted he’d known, even though he authenticated it. The Ahnenerbe have confirmed it. A very high-quality forgery, but fake all the same.’ He paused. ‘Good night, Major Authié. I shall expect to hear from you when you have settled in on Friday.’

The door was closed before Authié had the chance to react. He stared at the painted door, the polished handles and letter box. He realised that de l’Oradore’s timing of the information about the Codex was deliberate. He had been set the challenge to find Audric Baillard to compensate, in part, for his mistake with Saurat.

For two years, Authié had regretted handing the Codex to de l’Oradore. He’d assumed he would destroy it as a heretical text, although perhaps not before analysing it to test the truth of the power it was said to contain. Instead, he had given it immediately into the custody of the Ahnenerbe, where it had remained ever since.

Now, it seemed, there might still be a need to find the true Codex. For himself. To do what he should have done in the first place: put his loyalty to the Church above his loyalty to de l’Oradore.

Authié turned and walked quickly along the rue du Cheval Blanc, a cold anger growing inside him. Saurat was beyond his reach, but Raoul Pelletier was not. Sandrine Vidal was not. Someone must have hidden the forgery in the cave within the Col de Pyrène. Pelletier? And Vidal had told him of the discovery, in innocence or put up to it, it didn’t matter. He would find out soon enough.

At the front of the great Gothic cathedral, he stopped and looked up at the three stone arches of the Royal Portal. A book in stone, Authié had heard it called. Not only New Testament images of redemption and faith, but also older stories of judgement and vengeance from the Old Testament.

He hesitated a moment, turning over in his mind what de l’Oradore had said about the medieval book. If this Baillard knew about that, as well as having information about the Codex, Authié did not think it would be difficult to persuade him to talk.

He knew God was on his side. He was doing God’s will.

Authié looked up at the west Rose Window, depicting Christ’s Second Coming as judge. To condemn all those who had turned away from the true faith. To save only those who had adhered to the precepts of the Church. In the faint light of the moon, the blood red and death blue of the glass was just visible.

He lingered a moment longer, then gathered himself. There were few
résistants
left operational in the centre of Chartres, after another successful raid last week, but his face was known. It only needed one lone marksman. Authié walked fast until he reached the cover of the rue des Changes.

The time was right to return to the Midi. He would find Audric Baillard for de l’Oradore. Then he would hunt down Pelletier and Vidal for himself.

Chapter 102

CARCASSONNE

‘
W
e should get going,’ Sandrine said.

‘All right, little man,’ said Lucie, leaning over the pram. ‘Off to get the bread. You like to fetch the bread with Mama, don’t you, J-J?’

Jean-Jacques looked up at her with sleepy eyes, surprised to be out in the morning so early, but he smiled all the same. Perhaps it was too early to say, but he didn’t appear to be short-sighted like his father.

While Lucie continued to fuss and tuck in his blankets tightly again, making sure the sheets of blank paper hidden underneath the mattress could not be seen, Sandrine glanced up at her bedroom window. Inside, Raoul was sleeping. He was even thinner than when she’d last seen him in May and, like they all were, exhausted. There had been several Allied parachute drops recently that had missed their target and much-needed weapons hadn’t got through. There had been many arrests too. Raoul looked worn out and it had taken all her self-control to leave him and carry on as planned. But it was essential to get the news out of the attack on the Berriac tunnel before the Nazi and Milice propaganda machine got going. Besides, Raoul needed to sleep. They would have time to talk as soon as she got back.

Lucie was still fussing. She seemed full of jitters this morning, Sandrine thought. She bent forward and kissed her godson on the top of his head. Jean-Jacques wrinkled his nose, his podgy hand flapping at the air.

‘No!’

In her
panier
, Sandrine had a piece of rotting fish wrapped in newspaper – designed to put off even the most zealous of Wehrmacht patrols. Beneath the fish was a roll of film from Liesl that Raoul had brought, and her copy about the sabotage of the Berriac tunnel.

‘I know,’ Sandrine whispered to the boy, ‘it’s an awful stink.’ She pinched her nose. ‘But it will keep the nasty soldiers from talking to us, J-J, so we don’t mind, do we?’

Jean-Jacques giggled. ‘Gun, gun,’ he said. ‘Gun, bang.’

Lucie raised her eyebrows. ‘I can’t imagine what his father would say.’

Sandrine smiled. Lucie always talked as if Max was with them. She’d not seen him since that day in Le Vernet in August 1942, though she wrote every week. The waitress in the Café de la Paix in Le Vernet village sent news of the camp when she could. It pained Lucie not to be able to tell Max anything about their son, the things he did or the words he was starting to speak. But she was keeping a diary, so Max would be able to read about J-J’s first few years when he came home. She behaved as if it was never in doubt that Max would come back.

Sandrine wasn’t sure if Lucie believed it, or was putting on a good face. Ever since the invasion of the
zone nono
and the arrival of German soldiers on the streets of the Bastide, the deportations of Jewish prisoners from camps in the Ariège had accelerated. For whatever reason – perhaps his skill with languages, or the constant enquiries by Marianne’s Croix-Rouge colleagues – Max had been lucky. Lucie, she suspected, was still inclined to put it down to Authié’s intervention, though she never said as much and Sandrine didn’t ask.

In the last few weeks, though, things had changed. The Allied landings in the north of France in June proved the tide was turning against the Axis forces, whatever the newspapers claimed. As a reaction, the number of Jewish prisoners being deported from Le Vernet was being stepped up. To a place called Dachau, in Bavaria, a camp on the site of an old munitions factory, so she’d heard. Sandrine knew of no one who had ever been released from that camp. She didn’t know how Lucie would manage if Max’s name was finally put on the list.

Lucie had stayed in Coustaussa with Liesl and Marieta until Jean-Jacques was born, but country living didn’t suit her at all, and in the summer of 1943, she had come back to Carcassonne. A
fille-mère
, an unmarried mother as the result of a one-night stand with a soldier, was the story put about. Her position was difficult, but by keeping Jean-Jacques’ paternity a secret, she kept her son safe. Since Suzanne lived mostly at the rue du Palais, Lucie lodged with Suzanne’s mother and worked in a haberdasher’s shop near the station owned by one of Madame Peyre’s friends. Her distinctive blonde hair had gone, returned to its natural sparrow brown, and she was thin. She dressed in plain dresses designed not to attract attention, rather than the trim two-pieces she’d worn before the war. Once, she had run into her father in the Bastide. He had frowned slightly, as if trying to recall where he knew her from, but had not recognised her.

‘Ready for the off?’ Sandrine asked.

‘As I’ll ever be, kid.’

Sandrine smiled. Lucie gave the same response every time. She wasn’t really involved, though from time to time – like this morning – she was prepared to run an errand. She felt the best way to help keep Max safe was to do nothing to draw attention. To follow the rules. She had no idea Sandrine, Suzanne and Marianne did anything more than produce an underground newspaper.

‘Kid, kid, kid,’ sang Jean-Jacques. At seventeen months, he was already talkative, keen to try words and sounds out loud.

Lucie’s expression softened for a moment, then she handed him a crust of stale bread and put her finger to her lips.

‘Nice and quiet,
mon brave
. Quiet.’

Jean-Jacques’ eyes grew wide. Sandrine, too, put her finger to her lips and puffed out her lips, as if blowing out the candles on a birthday cake. The little boy copied.

‘Ssshh,’ he whispered loudly. ‘J-J quiet.’

They walked towards boulevard Antoine Marty, the front wheel of the perambulator squeaking horribly loudly in the quiet of the morning. Their shoes, too, were noisy. Like everyone else, they were having to make do with wooden soles when the leather wore through.

‘Who’s there to meet us?’ Lucie asked.

‘Gaston. Suzanne will come later when the sheets are ready to be distributed.’