Citadel (70 page)
‘Look after her,’ Marianne said, as Raoul hugged her.
‘I will.’
Raoul shook hands with Suzanne, then went back into the salon to act as lookout at the window.
‘You’re clear on what to do?’ Suzanne said to Sandrine.
‘Lord, you two are as bad as each other,’ she said with a smile. ‘I will be careful, as I always am. I will go through the exact same procedures as I always do.’ She smiled. ‘And it will be fine, as it always is. Don’t worry.’
‘All clear,’ Raoul called from the salon.
‘All the copies of
Libertat
were collected by the couriers,’ Suzanne said, ‘so nothing to worry about there.’
‘Good.’
Suzanne turned to Marianne. ‘I’ll see you on the platform at half past five. If for any reason I’m not there, you go on. I’ll catch you up.’
‘Why wouldn’t you be there?’ Marianne said quickly. ‘I’m not going without you.’
‘Come on, don’t get rattled. It’s just the usual precautions, you know how it is. I will be there. But if there’s a problem, it will be better if I know you’re on your way. Safe. You see?’
Marianne pulled herself together. ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
Sandrine opened the door. Suzanne picked up her suitcase, then, without a backward glance, walked down the steps and away to the right, out of sight.
A few minutes later, Marianne did the same, though headed in the opposite direction, away from the station.
Sandrine stood listening to her sister’s footsteps echoing down the rue du Palais, blinking away the tears. Neither of them had said it, but both sisters knew it was possible they were saying goodbye to their childhood home for ever.
‘Just us now,’ she said, as Raoul came to stand beside her.
‘Just us,’ he said, putting his arms around her.
Finally, and for the first time in longer than she could remember, Sandrine gave in. She broke down and cried. Raoul held her, stroking her hair and saying nothing.
TARASCON
‘
P
OUR ARRÊTER LES CRIMES DE LA GESTAPO ET MILICE
,’ Baillard said, reading the headline on the tract lying on Pujol’s kitchen table. ‘Where did this come from?’
‘The railway station,’ Pujol said with a smile. ‘The guard said there was a suitcase under the seat in the last carriage. Nobody claimed it, so he opened it up and found about fifty of these inside. He called the Milice, but of course they were all otherwise occupied keeping guard at Pierre Déjean’s funeral, so the perpetrator – whoever he was – was long gone.’
‘Of course,’ Baillard said. ‘What happened to the rest of them?’
‘As the guard explained to the
milicien
who came to collect the suitcase, there was an unfortunate gust of wind at about the moment he opened the lid, so strong he was unable to prevent some of the tracts from being blown out of the station and into the street.’
A smile lit Baillard’s gaunt face. ‘
Es vertat
. It is true that the Tramontana can be particularly fierce at this time of year.’
The two old men looked at one another. Pujol read the headline again.
‘Sure you didn’t write this yourself, Baillard?’ he chuckled. ‘The fact that it’s called
Libertat
rather than
Libération
or
Liberté
? And that final sentence – “the world belongs to the brave” – sounds like something you’d come out with.’ He gave a snort of amusement. ‘It’s my guess this is what you’ve been doing. Your story about being in a prison camp is all just a cover, isn’t it?’
Baillard held up both hands in mock surrender. Pujol gave a bark of laughter, then sat down in the chair opposite, expelling air from his lungs as the cushion expelled dust.
‘It is a good piece of work,’ Baillard said. ‘Honourable.’
Baillard wondered. In Coustaussa he had talked to Sandrine Vidal about how important it was to bear witness to the truth. Had he used the word
libertat
to her? If so, was it possible that she had taken the suggestion?
‘Honourable?’ Pujol said, picking up the newspaper. ‘Yes, I suppose it is. I haven’t come across this one before.’ He shook his head. ‘These photographs, it must have taken a great deal of courage to get them.’
‘So you do not know who might be responsible?’
‘Not a clue,’ said Pujol. ‘There are so many, they come and go. Most of them get shut down in the end,’ he added, the smile fading from his eyes. ‘You know how it is.’
Baillard nodded. There had been several well-publicised arrests by Gestapo of
résistants
working for the underground press. The men had all been executed, the women deported to Ravensbrück, a camp just north of Berlin.
Pujol shambled to the cupboard, took out two glasses and a bottle of red wine, then sat back down at the table.
‘Have a little something, go on,’ he said. ‘Present from the mother of one of the lads up the hill, you know. Help keep your spirits up.’
Baillard smiled properly this time. ‘Your answer to everything, Achille!’
‘Have you got a better suggestion?’
As Baillard took the glass, there was a tap at the front door and the atmosphere shifted. Pujol gestured for him to go into the bedroom, out of sight. Baillard nodded and left, taking his glass with him.
Pujol put his own down on the table and shambled into the corridor.
‘All right, all right, I’m on my way.’
‘It’s me, Inspector Pujol.’
Pujol stopped and called back to Baillard. ‘It’s all right, it’s Geneviève Saint-Loup.’
Baillard emerged from his hiding place and went back into the kitchen as Geneviève and Eloise came rushing down the corridor.
‘It is you! ’ said Geneviève with delight. ‘Eloise, I was right. It was Monsieur Baillard.’
She rushed up to him, then stopped. Baillard saw her battling not to let her shock at his emaciated appearance show. Eloise had no such qualms.
‘You look terrible!’ she said.
‘Eloise!’ Geneviève said, elbowing her in the ribs.
Baillard smiled. ‘Already I begin to improve at the sight of you all.’
‘Marieta will be so happy to see you, Monsieur Baillard,’ said Geneviève. ‘She always said you would come back.’
Baillard sighed. ‘We have experienced many things over the years, she and I,’ he said quietly. ‘Death and loss. Yes, I believe she would have known.’
‘That’s odd,’ Eloise said, pointing at the iridescent bottle on the table.
Baillard’s eyes narrowed. ‘How so?’
‘Our father had one just like it, didn’t he, Geneviève?’ She picked it up. ‘Do you know, in fact, I think it’s the same one. Look at the hole at the top.’
‘What happened to it, Madomaisèla?’
‘I’m not altogether sure, pawned probably, or sold. It was a family heirloom, passed down from generation to generation, but it wouldn’t have mattered. He was always in debt.’
‘Can you remember when you last saw it?’
Eloise shook her head. ‘It was the first time – though not the last – that we had no money and everything was sold. I seem to remember he sold boxes of stuff to some German chap who was setting up a guest house near Montségur. Don’t think it lasted long.’
Pujol’s eyes widened. ‘Could it be Rahn, Baillard?’
‘Possibly,’ Baillard said.
‘But if Rahn had it, surely he would have looked inside?’
‘Not if, as Madomaisèla Eloise says, it was in a box with many other objects.’
Pujol frowned. ‘You think Rahn had it all shipped back to Germany, then found it just before he died and sent it to Antoine Déjean?’
‘I think that might very well be the case,’ Baillard said thoughtfully. ‘I do not suppose you remember when this happened?’
Eloise shook her head. ‘Not precisely. I was little, no more than nine or ten, which makes it about fifteen years ago.’ She turned to her sister. ‘You were even younger, so I don’t suppose you recall anything about it.’
But Geneviève was staring at the newspaper. Baillard saw the look of surprise in her eyes, then alarm, and his earlier suspicions were confirmed. He put the bottle to one side.
‘The wind has done the work,’ he said innocently. ‘It seems a suitcase was left at the railway station and the contents were blown about.’
‘How unfortunate,’ said Eloise.
Baillard looked at them both, then slowly a smile broke across his face.
‘I wonder, Madomaisèla Geneviève, do you know something about this publication,
Libertat
?’
‘It is difficult to say . . . ’ she replied, throwing a glance at her sister.
Baillard’s smile grew even wider. ‘I do not think she would object to you telling me, Madomaisèla Geneviève,’ he said quietly. ‘But, of course, you must be guided by your conscience.’
Pujol stared at Baillard, then at the two girls. ‘Do you have the first idea what he’s talking about?’
‘The thing is . . .’ Geneviève began to say.
Baillard suddenly let out a bellow of laughter. It was so out of character, and so unexpected, that Pujol jumped in surprise.
‘What the devil’s got into you, Audric?’ he said irritably.
‘Monsieur Baillard knows anyway, I think,’ Eloise said, sitting down at the table.
‘Perhaps you could humour an old man, madomaisèla,’ he said. ‘You forget, I have been gone for some time.’
‘Of course, Monsieur Baillard.’ Genevieve smiled. ‘Liesl took the photographs. I took the film and left it at the
boîte aux lettres
in Limoux on Sunday, for Raoul to collect and take to Carcassonne.’ She glanced at the images. ‘All went to plan, clearly.’
‘Suzanne’s in charge of the printing,’ Eloise said. ‘Marianne sees to the distribution, with the help of two brothers. I don’t know their names, but they’re local. Originally contacts of Raoul, I think.’
Baillard nodded. ‘And this?’ he said, pointing to the small paragraph about the sabotage of the Berriac tunnel.
For a split second, Geneviève hesitated. But knowing that, of all people, Monsieur Baillard could be trusted, she explained how ‘Citadel’ had come into being.
As the Saint-Loup sisters talked, the story passing backwards and forwards between them, Baillard watched his friend’s craggy face. Pujol’s astonishment was obvious, for although he knew that the girls ran errands for the Resistance and helped to carry food and messages to the maquisards in the hills, it was clear he’d never dreamt of anything more.
‘I’d heard a story or two about a network with women in it, but I mean to say . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Never thought for a moment it was true.’
‘It is because others think the same as you do,
amic
, that they have remained undiscovered for this long.’
‘And who’s running the show?’ asked Pujol.
Eloise and Geneviève didn’t say anything. Baillard allowed a brief smile to touch his lips.
‘Well?’ Pujol said. ‘Pelletier?’
‘No, not Sénher Pelletier,’ Baillard replied.
‘Who, then?’ Pujol demanded, sounding irritated.
Baillard took a moment before he answered. ‘Two years ago,’ he said slowly, ‘Madomaisèla Sandrine and I discussed what might be done. Unless I am much mistaken, she is behind both the newspaper and the
réseau
“Citadel”.’
He looked at Geneviève. ‘I am right, madomaisèla?’
She smiled, then she nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Sandrine Vidal,’ Pujol objected. ‘But she’s only a child!’
Baillard sighed. ‘I know. But this is a war like no other, my friend. It is no respecter of age or experience. In this war, everyone is involved. Men, women, the very old and the very young.’ He picked up the newspaper and looked at the block-letter headline again. ‘A war like no other.’
CARCASSONNE
A
t seven o’clock on Thursday 13 July, Leo Authié drove along the boulevard Maréchal Pétain. As the car glided past the building where his office had been, he saw a white banner with the word
FELDKOMMANDANTUR
743 on it. Though it was dusk, he could see that two swastikas had been pinned to the balustrade above the main entrance. It was an odd sensation.
Carcassonne seemed small after two years in Chartres. Which made it even more shameful that the insurgents continued successfully to operate in the narrow streets of the Bastide. There was little excuse for the fact that the Gestapo and the Milice had failed to eradicate all opposition entirely.
‘
Canaille
,’ he muttered. Vermin.
Laval was driving. He said nothing. Authié wouldn’t expect him to speak. Laval obeyed orders now. He did not question or challenge. The abrupt news they were to return to the south, then Authié’s announcement that they were to schedule their arrival a day earlier than de l’Oradore had suggested, had been met with a lack of curiosity. Two years in the north, being subordinate to the Gestapo and Wehrmacht personnel with whom Authié fraternised, had cured Laval of his tendency to query his superior.
De l’Oradore had ensured that the murder of Erik Bauer and his men in August 1942 had not come to the attention of Nazi High Command in Paris. It had given de l’Oradore a hold over Authié, but since it did not interfere with or limit his ambitions, it was a situation he was prepared to tolerate. In turn, Authié had created a paper trail implicating Laval in the massacre. Should at any stage his deputy step out of line, this evidence would prove Laval had acted on his own initiative. That he had, in fact, been working as a double agent. It was true, of course. A simple conversation with the two German prisoners in Le Vernet had confirmed Laval had been selling information to Bauer. Authié had never had to make the threat explicit.
He smiled. ‘Do you know, I believe I shall enjoy Carcassonne, Laval,’ he said.
Laval didn’t respond.
‘Lieutenant,’ Authié said sharply.
Their eyes locked. ‘Yes, sir,’ Laval said.
The car turned left and drove past the Hôtel Terminus, heading out of town towards the route de Toulouse. The Gestapo had set up their headquarters in a rather ordinary suburban villa, although the majority of its number were garrisoned at the Caserne Laperrine.
Authié had no doubt Schiffner and his men resented his arrival – it was a clear criticism of their inability to suppress the insurgents in Carcassonne – but they were not in a position to object. Schiffner could not fail to be aware of the support Authié had in Chartres and Paris. His recent contributions to the strikes against Resistance and Maquis targets in the south had been widely acknowledged. In Montolieu in May, in Conques and Chalabre. Schiffner would know that Nazi High Command thought highly of Authié.
