Clash by Night (20 page)

“Better?” he said.

“Yes.”

He stood and moved back. She heard the rustle of clothing and realized he was taking off his uniform. She waited tensely as he removed his tunic and shirt, then reached out blindly as he put his hand to his belt.

“Hold me for a minute, please,” Lysette whispered.

Becker sat beside her on the bed. Shirtless, his skin shone with a dull patina, as smooth as polished marble. She could see the fan of dark hair spreading across his chest, dwindling to a line down his middle that disappeared below his waist. His shoulders were broad for a slim man, tapering to a lean torso. When he folded her into his arms she put her cheek against his breast and closed her eyes.

Becker stroked her hair, wondering how to reassure her that all would be well. He had only an inkling of what she must have suffered at her husband’s hands, how that man must have distorted the act of love into something to be feared and dreaded. Becker didn’t know how she had summoned the courage to offer herself to him this way; he only knew that he must prove to her she was right to do so.
 

He held her off and kissed her, then eased her back onto the pillow. She reacted with a broken sigh as he removed the rest of her underclothes, dropping them on the floor. He felt her tense again and kissed her face lightly, her flushed cheeks, the tip of her nose, then moved his mouth lower, caressing the pale breasts, the stippled light brown nipples. Lysette touched him as he made love to her, dragging her fingers through his thick hair, gripping his shoulders as growing passion dispelled her timidity. When he got up to take off his pants she held her breath until he returned to her, clutching his fingers and holding them to her lips.

Becker opened his hand against her mouth and she kissed the palm. It was a curiously obeisant gesture, and he took his hand away, tracing her flank as he lay next to her. She allowed the light pressure to turn her onto her back and he entered her with a single deliberate thrust.

Lysette gasped and turned her head, seeking his mouth. Startled, Becker raised his head from her shoulder, kissing her back avidly, taking her face between his hands as he moved slowly within her. She dug her heels into his hips and he braced to accommodate her, plunging deeply. Her head fell back and her hands slipped down his spine, slick with sweat, to find a hold at his waist where the muscles bunched and moved under her fingers.

“Anton,” she murmured.

He answered her in German. And even though she didn’t understand the language she somehow knew what he was saying.

* * *

Harris crouched behind a spreading maple and checked the dial on his luminous watch. Just a couple more minutes now. He glanced up at the dark sky and shivered slightly in his light jacket. Adrenaline was already pumping through his veins and making him feel cold.
 

He looked back over his shoulder and saw nothing more than a tangled expanse of trees in last leaf. But he knew that his men were nearby, sensed rather than seen, in much the same way he had felt the presence of his team behind him when he played football. The support was there, strong and silent, a wall of power at his back. The rightness of what they were doing filled him, bracing him like a strong tonic, and he knew they wouldn’t fail.

A twig snapped to his left and he whirled to confront Alain, who ran, catlike, to drop beside him on the ground. Harris signaled him to wait and go second, as they had planned. He was to alert the workers on duty while Harris set up the detonator at the bottom of the rise.

Harris glanced at his watch again, gave Alain the high sign, and broke from the trees.

* * *

Becker came awake quickly, as he always did, glancing around him. There was no moon and the night was very still. Even the incessant chirping of the cicadas seemed dulled to a murmur. He drew back the sheet and walked naked to the open window, leaning against the sill. He gulped the cool air, sighing as it caressed him, drying the perspiration on his damp skin. Lysette slept on, a slight figure in his bed.

He was still trying to understand what had happened there. He was not an inexperienced man; he had slept with women before his wife, as a student and a cadet, though with none other since his marriage. Lovemaking with Elise had altered his attitude, quelled his desire, and so he was unprepared for his reaction to Lysette Remy.

He looked around for his cigarettes, glancing at Lysette as he located them, being careful not to disturb her. He lit one and returned to the window, thinking about his wife.

He couldn’t help comparing her with Lysette. Elise was a sexual athlete, accomplished, inventive. But there was something she always seemed to lack, tenderness maybe, and he had felt it in Lysette the moment he touched her.

Elise looked upon sex as a means to an end: pleasure, children, the relaxation into sleep. She disliked kissing, had turned her head away the first few times Becker had tried to capture her mouth with his during lovemaking. In contrast Lysette had opened her lips under his as if he had a gift to place between them. Her guileless vulnerability, especially in view of her history, had roused in him emotions long dormant, indeed he’d thought long dead. For all her almost virginal shyness Lysette had given him more in one night than his wife, with her skilled gymnastics, ever had.

 
When he turned back to the room Lysette was sitting up, watching him.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said, slipping back under the cover and enfolding her again. She curled against him like a puppy.

“You didn’t.”

“Are you all right?” he murmured.

“Yes.” She put her head back and tried to see his face. “How old are you?” she asked.

He smiled slightly, tucking the blanket around her. “Forty.”

She reached up and traced the lines bracketing his mouth, touched the gray at his temples. “I thought you were older.”

His smile widened. “Do I look like such an antique?”

“Not so much that, but your position. Your rank.”

His smile faded. “I was ambitious and successful in my younger years.” He smoothed the curve of her spine with the palm of his hand. “And how old are you,
liebchen
?” he asked in turn.

“Thirty-two.”

He nodded slowly. “We’ll have to be more careful next time.”

A flush of happiness spread over her pale skin. There would be a next time. Secure in that knowledge she said, “You don’t have to worry. I can’t have children.”

He looked down at her. “But you are young still. Why not?”

“I was pregnant once, and my husband...he...”

“Beat you?” Becker suggested in a dangerously quiet voice.

“Yes, and later in the hospital they said I couldn’t ever have children after that.”

“If he comes back here I’ll kill him for you,” Becker said evenly, as if offering to pass her a slice of bread.

“He won’t. He’s dead,” Lysette said softly.

“How do you know?”

“I feel, in my heart, that the threat is gone.”

He stroked her bare arm absently. “Was there no one to help you, then? Was there nothing you could do?”
 

“I went to the priest and he told me to pray.”

“For what?”
 

“For the strength to bear it...”

Becker snorted.

“Or for my husband to change.”

“And?”

“He did not change,” she said simply.

“It’s a wonder he didn’t kill you,” Becker muttered.

“There were times when I hoped he would.”

Becker pulled her tighter against him. “I would like...” he said.

“What?”

 
He shrugged. “I wish I could offer you something, tell you that your life would be different.”

She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. “It is different now. You’ve made it different. And you don’t have to offer me anything. Just seeing you and being with you sometimes is enough.”

“Are you sure?” he asked quietly, kissing her back.

“I’m sure.” Lysette clung to him, thinking of how he had looked while poised above her: panting, his hair tangled by her hands, his brow and upper lip spangled with sweat. She had at last seen him lose that distant self possession, because of her, and it gave her great satisfaction.

His kiss lingered, and he began to make love to her again, less urgently but no less intensely than before.

* * *

Laura paced the Duclos kitchen, unable to sit down or stand still. The minutes ticked by with agonizing slowness and as each one passed in silence she feared that the mission had failed. She tormented herself with visions of Harris and Alain surprised by a patrol, foiled by a faulty detonator, pursued through the night as helpless fugitives. She strained her ears listening for the blast she could not possibly fail to hear, and when the thunderous explosion finally came, she sagged against the table in relief, gripping its edge for support.

Glass all through the house cracked with the force of the blast. Laura ran out to the living room, to the double windows overlooking the street. Fire illuminated the night sky and a spreading cloud of smoke billowed through it, wafting toward the village. Townspeople, most of them in nightclothes, ran out of their houses, gesticulating and pointing toward the source of the noise. Many of them were shaking hands and clapping one another on the back. Although they may have had no hand in the destruction of the factory, they were happy that the German plan for its use had come to a bad end.

 
Laura smiled to herself, filled with the pride of accomplishment. But the smile faded as she thought of the retaliation which must surely follow.
 

Henri dashed out of his room and down the stairs, joining Laura at the window.

“What was that?” he whispered, wild eyed. Barefoot and in his nightshirt, his gray hair on end, he appeared twenty years older than he was.
 

“Some sort of explosion,” Laura replied mildly. “Looks like the factory.”

Henri groaned and mumbled to himself.

“What did you say, Papa?” Laura asked.

“We are all going to pay for this,” he said fearfully. “You know that.”

Laura didn’t answer.

“Why couldn’t you stay out of it?” he demanded, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her. “Why couldn’t you just leave it alone?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Laura answered evenly, shrugging him off. “You know very well I was here with you all night.”
 

“And where is Alain?” the old man demanded. “Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I don’t see what’s going on in my own house? You’re so smart, so sly, you and the boy. But not so smart as you imagine. Don’t you know who you’re dealing with here? These people mean business, this is not some American game of, how do you say, cops and robbers.” He put his hands over his face and bent his head. “I’ll be blamed for this. I’ll be blamed.”
 

They both heard a sound at the kitchen door and looked up as Alain walked into the room. He had been careful to clean up and change his clothes before returning home, but the blazing triumph in his pale eyes was unmistakable.

“Where were you?” Henri demanded.

“Playing chess with Pierre Langtot,” Alain replied, glancing at Laura.

“At this hour?”

“The game ran late.”
 

Henri shook his head. “You are a fool.”

Alain’s mouth tightened. “No, you’re the fool, old man, to sell yourself for a steady supply of wine.”

Henri took a step toward his son. Then, as if realizing the futility of the argument he stopped, his shoulders sagging. “You’ll need an alibi for this. We all will,” he said wearily.

“I have one,” Alain said casually. “His wife was with us the whole time.

“And you think they’ll listen to her?” Henri asked incredulously.

Alain turned away. “Don’t concern yourself with this,” he told his father. “Just close your eyes as you have always done and go back to bed.”

Henri hesitated a long moment, then quietly climbed the stairs to his room.

Laura waited until he was out of earshot and then said excitedly, “Everything went off as planned?”

“Everything. I doubt if there’s a furnace left standing.”

Laura hugged him, then whispered, “Harris?” She was aware that her asking would annoy Alain but was too concerned to restrain herself.

“Already gone,” he replied shortly, reaching for the water pump and splashing his face. “He left for Calais as soon as it blew.”

“Thank God. And everyone else got away all right?”

“Yes.”

“So what now?” Laura asked anxiously.

Alain met his sister-in-law’s probing gaze. “So now we wait. And hope that everyone keeps courage and doesn’t talk.”

Their gazes locked, both suspecting that the real challenge still lay ahead of them.

* * *

In Bar-le-Duc Becker was jolted awake by the nearby thunder of the explosion. He knew immediately what it was. He grabbed for his clothes and began throwing them on, his mind working faster than his fingers.