Grey Wolves (19 page)

It was risky to stand around now that Germans were involved. Onlookers moved off as PT finally accepted the friendly hand and found himself propped against an unlit lamppost, feeling faint.

‘I know a doctor,’ the man helping him said. ‘Come with me.’

‘Put the knife
down
,’ the soldier repeated.

As the German unholstered his gun, the big man stood up explosively and charged with the bread knife. A woman screamed as the huge blade tore the German’s throat open. The other soldier fired, shattering the big man’s knee. His body pirouetted and his skull whacked the cobbles, while the knifed German staggered about, fighting for breath as blood flooded his lungs.

A dead soldier meant certain German retribution. People who’d been walking started to run. Men sitting outside the café drained glasses and started walking.

PT’s vision was blurring. He looked around for the man who’d offered a doctor, but he’d disappeared along with everyone else. He staggered across from the lamppost, almost falling as he took three steps and hit a doorway.

The German who’d taken the shot blasted a whistle, as PT felt his way along the wall. His head was light and he desperately wanted to pass out, but if the Germans found him here with a knife wound they’d surely pin some of the blame for the dead soldier on him.

A couple of soldiers were running one way and a gendarme
4
was coming the other. The pavement was clear and PT felt conspicuous, but the news that a German soldier had been murdered had now spread inside the bars and clubs.

Notices all over occupied France promised brutal reprisals if any German was harmed, so nobody wanted to be in the vicinity when the Gestapo turned up to investigate. As word spread through bars and cafés, bodies poured into the streets. In the dark it was hard to see PT’s injury. People either didn’t care or assumed that the young lad dragging himself along the wall was hopelessly drunk.

*

Marc and Henderson came back into Lorient through the northern checkpoint a little after ten p.m. When the guard asked why they’d been out of town, Henderson explained that he’d been collecting ledgers for Mamba Noir from Madame Mercier’s accountant near her home in Queven. He had the ledgers in his briefcase, but the German didn’t bother to look.

As they neared Lorient station in the centre of town there was a deep rumble, followed by an orange glow in the sky a few kilometres out of town. Henderson checked his watch and smiled at Marc.

‘Fifty-six minutes since I broke the time pencil,’ he said.

‘Hope they did the job,’ Marc replied.

The metal engines wouldn’t burn, so after the initial flash there was no smoke, or flames to light the sky. Beyond the station something seemed wrong. The pavements were crowded with revellers, pouring out of the entertainment district in a major hurry.

‘Another power cut, I’d bet,’ Marc said.

‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ Henderson said. ‘When we had the power cut they just milled about in the street. This lot look worried.’

They grew more suspicious as two black Citroëns and an open-topped Mercedes packed with senior officers shot by, with the lead driver glued to his horn. Henderson spotted a regular from Mamba Noir and asked him what was going on.

‘All sorts of rumours,’ the bespectacled gent said, as his smartly dressed girlfriend pulled on his arm. ‘Some kind of bomb by the harbour front, we heard. Quite a few Germans killed. Three, eight, ten, it depends who you ask.’

‘Thank you,’ Henderson said, as the couple hurried off.

‘Who could have done that?’ Marc said. ‘Are you sure we should go back home?’

‘Where else?’ Henderson asked. ‘It’s safer in our rooms than hanging about on the street.’

‘We could go back to the safe house,’ Marc said. ‘If eight Germans are dead, they’ll be tearing everything apart, making arrests, kicking down doors.’

‘If they kick our door down, I want to be in my bed doing absolutely nothing suspicious. We’ll be home in ten minutes. If they do stop us, we’ll stick to our cover story about the accountant. The guards on the checkpoint will confirm our story.’

‘I guess,’ Marc said.

‘It’s your natural herd instinct,’ Henderson explained. ‘You’re seeing hundreds of people going one way and your subconscious is telling you to do the same.’

Marc grew calmer as they neared home. The revellers were gone and all they saw were a few bar and café staff heading home. Henderson stopped a bar manager from the place opposite Mamba Noir.

‘It wasn’t a bomb,’ she explained. ‘German patrol officer had his throat cut. Everywhere has been shut. Drunken Germans have smashed a few places up. I wouldn’t hang around on the street because they’re taking people away in vans.’

‘Thanks,’ Henderson said. ‘You keep safe.’

Usually the streets behind the main drag were full of puking and yelling, but tonight they were eerie. It was a relief to reach home. As Henderson took his key out, Marc looked around the corner towards Mamba Noir.

‘I’d better check and see if Joel left a message.’

‘Wait until morning,’ Henderson said.

Marc shook his head. ‘What if they collect the rubbish?’

Henderson realised it was less than thirty metres away and there was nobody about. ‘OK, go and check but don’t hang around. Do you want some hot milk before bed?’

‘Great,’ Marc said.

‘I’ll put the pan on.’

Marc jumped down off the doorstep and hurried across the road. It was unusual to see the bins behind Mamba Noir so empty. The staff had clearly left in a hurry without throwing out the rubbish.

As he crouched down and reached between the bins Marc heard German boots coming up the alleyway that led from the main drag. He slid himself between the two tall bins, knocking into one and making a rat scramble about inside. As Marc felt inside the tin and found a balled-up note from Joel, the German pulled down the front of his trousers and started pissing against the wall barely a metre away.

Marc strained his neck, trying to get a look behind. The heavily built German wore the sinister black uniform of the Gestapo, with leather gloves tucked into his pocket and a cigarette end between his lips.

The urine was splashing off the wall, but some made a drumming sound as it ricocheted against the empty bin. The Gestapo officer enjoyed the novelty of this and turned ninety degrees so that urine pelted the bins.

Marc buried his head and kept absolutely still, but his blond hair was a giveaway: clearly visible in the moonlight. As the stream of urine slowed to a drip, Marc heard the click of a pistol right behind his head.

‘And why does a boy hide amongst the bins?’ the heavily accented German asked, as he tugged on Marc’s collar. ‘Let’s take a walk.’

Note

  
⁴
 
Gendarme – a French civilian police officer.

There was no light on the staircase and Henderson jumped with fright as he stumbled into a trailing leg on the top landing. He crouched quickly, thinking it might be Joel because he came down this street every night, but the shadowy outline was too bulky.

Henderson’s heel dipped into blood as he unlocked his apartment. He ran to the window and pulled the curtains before screwing in the light bulb.

‘PT,’ he gasped. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’

He’d passed out holding his stomach. There was blood smeared along the wallpaper up the stairs. Henderson crouched down and felt PT’s cheek. It was cold, but at least he was breathing.

‘Can you hear me?’

PT’s eyelids flickered as Henderson cradled his head. ‘What happened?’

PT could only groan. Henderson’s first priority was to help him, but with the possibility of door-to-door searches he also had to avoid spreading too much blood around. He ripped the bedspread from the double bed in his room and laid it out flat just inside the apartment. He then dragged PT through doorway and on to the bedspread. As soon as Marc came back, he’d get him to mop up the blood outside and scrub the wallpaper along the staircase.

Henderson had done basic first aid training when he’d joined the Royal Navy and a more advanced course after joining Espionage Research. He filled a saucepan with water and put it on the stove to boil, then took off his jacket, rolled his shirt-sleeves and quickly washed his hands before unbuttoning PT’s bloody shirt.

‘What’s it like?’ PT moaned.

‘Just keep calm,’ Henderson said. ‘Take deep breaths and try not to pass out again.’

The wound was an hour old and Henderson’s first task was to see how serious it was. PT’s abdomen was slick with blood, with a darker semi-clotted layer stuck to the skin beneath.

‘This is going to hurt,’ Henderson said, as he explored the sides of the wound with his fingertips, then pulled the edges of the deepest part of the wound apart.

Henderson had seen some horrible things in his life, but he wasn’t comfortable with blood and guts up close and took a deep breath before looking down. His nightmare had been spurting blood, or the sight of intestines, but as far as he could tell the slashing wound had penetrated no deeper than the abdominal muscle.

‘Am I gonna die?’ PT asked.

‘I’m no doctor, but I think you’ve had a lucky scrape.’

Henderson peeked between the curtains as he walked to the kitchen dresser. It was hard to see because the street was in blackout, but there was no sign of Marc and he should have taken less than a minute to collect the message.

Henderson covered his bloody hand with a dishcloth as he opened the cabinet and grabbed a sewing kit and half-drunk bottle of vodka. He took out a needle, snapped off a metre of strong silk thread and dropped both into the saucepan which was now close to boiling

There was no obvious sign of dirt in the wound, but who knew where the knife had been? The cap of the vodka bottle slipped out of Henderson’s grasp as he unscrewed it, and rolled under Marc’s bed.

‘Remember what Mr Takada taught you,’ Henderson said. ‘Pain is all in your mind. Go to your special place and stay there. OK?’

What are you gonna do?’ PT asked. He raised his head anxiously, then groaned as he saw the bottle. ‘Oh shit!’

‘I know, I know,’ Henderson said soothingly, as he threw PT a handkerchief. ‘I’ve got to sterilise the wound, then I’ll put a few stitches in. Stuff that in your mouth and bite down hard. We can’t wake up the old biddies downstairs. Ready?’

PT’s movements were shaky, but he managed to push the handkerchief into his mouth and raised his thumb. Henderson opened the wound a fraction with one hand before filling it with vodka. PT reacted explosively to the pain. His legs shot up, kneeing Henderson in the side.

‘Don’t move, you’ll make it worse,’ Henderson said, as he crawled forwards and pinned PT’s shoulders. ‘Deep breaths. You’re gonna get through this.’

*

Marc jumped down from a canvas-sided German army truck.

‘Inside,’ a black-uniformed officer ordered, before kicking out at a young waitress. ‘Faster or I’ll crack your heads.’

Most of the men and women who’d driven in with Marc were staff from the bars and cafés whose only crime was emerging on to the streets several minutes after their customers. There were drunks, and passers-by who needed to cross the main drag on their way to or from a night job, but Marc also realised that all the important bar and restaurant owners had been rounded up, including Madame Mercier.

Gestapo headquarters was in an opulent Roman-style villa that had been requisitioned from Lorient’s richest family. Fifty prisoners were made to sit cross-legged and hands-on-heads in a paved courtyard, surrounded on all sides by double-height columns. Marc knew Madame Mercier had friends in high places. If she spotted him she might be able to help, so he squeezed between a couple of bodies and sat down next to her.

They waited in silence for more than an hour as people were singled out and taken away for questioning.

‘Hands stay on your head,’ a Gestapo guard shouted, as he grabbed Madame Mercier’s wrist.

‘I have arthritis in my neck,’ Madame Mercier said. ‘I can’t sit like this any longer.’

‘You’ll have a mouthful of teeth if you don’t,’ the guard said, as he forced Madame Mercier’s hand back up on to her head.

‘How dare you,’ she cried.

The German swung his rifle butt downwards, smashing Madame Mercier across the top of the head and making her wig slip down over her face. Marc looked around instinctively and the German motioned towards him with the rifle, threatening the same treatment.

‘Face front or you’ll get some too.’

‘Trouble here, Gefreiter
5
?’ another officer said, as he stepped between rows of prisoners towards them. Marc didn’t dare look round, but knew the voice of the man who’d found him hiding between the bins.

‘No problem, Oberst Bauer. Just a lady who doesn’t follow instructions.’

Bauer laughed. ‘I expect that this lady thinks she’s much too important to sit on a stone floor. Isn’t that right, Madame Mercier?’

She didn’t answer.

‘She has many friends in high places, but none of them within these walls. Up now, both of you. Walk with me.’

As Marc stood up, the junior Gestapo officer had to help Madame Mercier to her feet. She clutched her wig to her bosom like a little pet as Bauer marched them down a marble corridor and up to a narrow first-floor room.

The space was austere, with light patches where paintings had been taken off the walls. The only original furniture was two finely sculpted chairs and an antique desk with the drawers ripped out, but the Gestapo had added its own distinctive brand of decoration. There was a tin bathtub, lengths of rubber hose, chains, restraining bracelets and a rack of spiked and barbed instruments.

‘Sit,’ Bauer said, pointing at the chairs as a female Gestapo officer stepped up behind and clicked her heels.

‘Do you need any equipment prepared, Herr Oberst?’ she asked.

Bauer gave a chilling laugh. ‘Well, that rather depends on whether I like the answers they give me.’

Marc took his first proper look at Bauer in the light. Like all elite military groups Gestapo officers were picked for strength and intelligence, but Nazi ideology also dictated that they have specific racial characteristics such as upright posture, fair hair and blue eyes. Tall, blond and powerfully built, Bauer made a perfect Nazi.