‘You see,’ she said, ‘you know I’m right.’
He didn’t answer, so she carried on. ‘Of course there will be extra security around the Cité, but I’ve taken that into account. Marianne knows someone who works in the kitchens of the Hôtel de la Cité. Suzanne’s copying her pass to make one for me.’
Despite himself, Raoul was drawn in. ‘Will it be good enough?’
‘Suzanne’s good. We’ll see. I think so.’
Sandrine looked at him for a moment, then went to the row of glass jars above the stove. Once, Marieta had filled them with rice and salt and flour. She reached up and took out the stock from one, the magazine from another, and started to assemble the gun. Usually she kept it loaded, but the mechanism tended to jam. After Monday’s expedition to Berriac, she’d taken it apart to clean it.
‘Surely you’re not going to attempt to shoot him?’ Raoul said. ‘There’s no way you’ll get close enough. At least, not close enough to have a clear shot and get away without being caught.’
‘I know,’ Sandrine said, locking the magazine into place.
‘What then? A bomb?’
She nodded. ‘Not in the hotel itself, of course. Too many people.’
‘Where?’
Sandrine was relieved Raoul was finally treating it like any other operation. He seemed to have put his objections to one side, for the time being at least.
‘Schiffner and Authié are scheduled to take a tour of the lices before they go into dinner. Only Gestapo and Milice will accompany them, no civilians. Our people inside the hotel will make sure everyone stays well out of range during the time that matters.’
‘Suzanne’s making the device, I suppose?’
‘Yes.’ Sandrine nodded. ‘Her record’s better than most. You know they call her “le fabricant ”. They assume she’s a man, of course.’
‘It’s true,’ Raoul said wryly. For an instant, a flash of humour came into his black eyes. ‘Not a single résistant has been injured on her watch, that’s what they say.’
‘And they’re right.’
‘It’s some record,’ Raoul said. Many of the smaller injuries suffered by partisans were the result of improvised devices going off too early, blowing up in people’s hands before they’d been properly primed.
Sandrine pushed her black curls back behind her ears and looked him in the eye. ‘So? What’s it to be?’
Raoul met her gaze and held it for a few long seconds. ‘What do I think?’ he said. ‘I think it could work, but . . .’
‘Good,’ she interrupted.
‘But it’s a long shot. And . . .’ He paused, framing the words carefully. ‘And I want to help. You have to have back-up, Sandrine.’
‘No, I don’t want you . . .’
She stopped. She resented him trying to protect her, yet here she was considering doing the same thing to him. Usually she had Suzanne and Marianne as back-up. If they went to Coustaussa tonight, as planned, they wouldn’t be available and she didn’t want them to delay their departure.
‘What is it?’ he asked, puzzled by her expression.
Sandrine smiled. ‘I accept your offer,’ she said. ‘It will make everything better if you’re with me.’
Raoul stared at her, then let out a long sigh of relief. ‘Well, that’s something.’ He smiled, then his expression changed. ‘Right. When do you plan to do this?’
‘Suzanne’s out in the Bastide getting hold of what she needs to construct the device. All being well, I’ll put the bomb in place tomorrow night, before Authié arrives and security is stepped up.’
‘How’s it going to be detonated?’
‘I’ll go back and do it,’ she said. ‘I can’t see any other option. They will be searching all bags on Friday, of course, even more than usual, but since I won’t have anything incriminating with me, that should be fine. Then all I’ve got to do is get to the device in time.’
‘But if . . .’ He stopped.
Sandrine guessed he’d been about to object again, but this time he thought better of it. Instead he cupped her face with his hands and kissed her on the forehead.
‘You are too brave for your own good, ma belle.’
‘Brave?’ she said, looking down at the gun in her hands. She didn’t feel brave, only scared.
Sandrine suddenly remembered a conversation she’d had with Marianne in this very kitchen, the morning after the demonstration. Two years ago, she hadn’t understood what Marianne was trying to tell her about the chasm between what she did and how she felt about it. To Sandrine, then, everything had sounded exciting and courageous.
Now she understood. She shook her head.
‘No,’ she said, echoing her sister’s words. ‘I’m not brave. I hate it, I hate it all. But there’s no choice.’
Chapter 112
TARASCON
At ten o’clock on Wednesday morning, the funeral procession left the église de la Daurade and made its way slowly towards the yew-lined avenue that led to the cemetery. At the head of the line, behind her husband’s coffin, Célestine Déjean walked slowly and with dignity on the arm of Eloise Breillac. Geneviève and her mother were a few steps behind.
Achille Pujol stood apart from the others. He was there as a family friend, one of Pierre’s only surviving comrades-in-arms, but his darting eyes betrayed the fact he was watching the blue berets of the miliciens, rifles cradled in their arms. A little behind them, four Gestapo soldiers.
Audric Baillard fell in beside him. He was very thin, his wrists, neck and shoulders jutting through his collar and cuffs. His lined face was gaunt and his once thick white hair was little more than down on his head, but his eyes were the same amber colour. Autumn leaves turning to gold.
‘Achille,’ he said quietly.
At first Pujol frowned at the intrusion, then his expression changed. First to horror at the sight of his friend, then to joy.
‘Audric, how the hell . . .?’ He shook his head. ‘Damn you, I thought you were dead. We all did.’ He broke off and peered. ‘It is you?’
Baillard smiled. ‘Yes, amic.’
‘You look dreadful.’
‘I am well aware of that,’ Baillard said lightly.
‘Where in the name of God have you been?’ said Pujol, under his breath.
‘Not here.’ Baillard looked at the cortège. ‘What happened?’
Pujol sighed. ‘Fact is, Pierre never recovered from Antoine’s death. Célestine is strong, but Pierre . . . Kept going as long as he could, I suppose, but in the end he gave up.’
Baillard nodded, then his eyes drifted to the soldiers. ‘Why so many?’
‘There are teams of Nazi archaeologists and engineers everywhere down here,’ Pujol said heavily. ‘Worst at Montségur, but also Montferrier, Ussat-les-Bains, Quéribus. Lombrives and Niaux, you can imagine.’
‘Soularac?’
‘Soularac?’ Pujol said, narrowing his eyes. ‘Not so far as I’ve heard.’
‘Good.’
Pujol waited for a moment, in case Baillard had something to add, then continued.
‘Added to which, they suspect Tarasconnais are smuggling food and supplies to the Maquis at Salvezines and the Roc Blanc. Our own lads.’
‘Are they right?’
‘Of course they’re right,’ Pujol growled. ‘I’m surprised you even need to ask.’
Baillard held up his hand. ‘Forgive me, my friend. I have been gone some time. Things change.’
‘Not here they don’t,’ said Pujol fiercely. He jerked his head towards the phalanx of soldiers. ‘They’re hoping some of the maquisards will come to pay their respects.’
‘They would not be so ill advised, surely?’
Pujol shrugged. ‘You know what these boys are. Living like outlaws in the hills. Put a gun in their hand, think they’re invincible.’
Baillard gave a thoughtful smile. ‘We used to call them faydits,’ he said. ‘Dispossessed. Now they are maquisards. But it is the same spirit, all the same.’
r /> ‘Faydits? You’re about seven hundred years out of date, Audric,’ Pujol said. ‘Anyway, Célestine put them right. Told them she’d tan their hides if any of them set foot in the town.’ He gave a brief smile. ‘Oh yes, none of them would get very far without Célestine.’ He stopped, the smile slipping from his face and the strain painfully evident. ‘It’s been two years, Audric,’ he said softly. ‘I thought you were dead.’
Baillard sighed. ‘I know, my friend. I know.’
The two old men looked at each other for a moment, then Baillard glanced again at the blue berets of the Milice.
‘If you do not mind, I shall excuse myself for now.’ He dropped his voice. ‘But you do still have the map? It is safe?’
Pujol nodded. ‘It’s just where you left it.’
Baillard let out a long exhalation of release. ‘Then there is still hope,’ he said.
‘Even when we couldn’t find you, Audric, I could never bring myself to believe you were gone. That you wouldn’t be back,’ Pujol said in a rush, then stopped and turned red.
Baillard put his hand on the other man’s arm. ‘I am here now, Achille.’
‘Yes, yes, of course you are,’ he said gruffly, embarrassed by his show of emotion. He stepped back into the line. ‘I’ll meet you at my house later, as soon as I can get away. There’s a wake at the Oliverot. I ought to show my face.’
‘Thank you.’
‘The key’s where it always was,’ Pujol said. ‘And help yourself to something to eat. God knows, you look like you could do with it.’
When Pujol arrived, it was past two o’ clock. Baillard was sitting at the kitchen table holding the antique glass bottle in his hand.
‘You found it, then?’
‘It is more of a relief to find this kept safe than you can know, Achille.’
Pujol shambled to the cupboard, got out two glasses, filled them with Guignolet. He handed one to Baillard, then sat down opposite him.
‘Did you find something to eat?’
‘What I needed, yes.’
Pujol nodded. ‘What happened, Audric? Where’ve you been? I thought they’d got you. We all did.’
Baillard closed his eyes. Memories of his long, debilitating, violent incarceration came rushing back. The smell and the heat. Later, the cold. The endless sounds of suffering and the stench of the ditches filled with corpses and excrement when dysentery spread through the camp. In the past, in his youth, Baillard had seen epidemics like it – siege sickness, they used to call it – but nothing as bad as what he had witnessed in the past two years.
‘Audric?’ Pujol prompted.
He opened his eyes. ‘Before I tell you, what of you, amic? What of here? How many have we lost?’
‘Too many,’ Pujol said in a quiet voice. ‘From Tarascon, Espéraza, Couiza, Coustaussa, Limoux, all over the valleys.’ He trailed off. ‘Too many.’
‘Each life lost is one too many,’ Baillard said. ‘The things I have seen, the stories I have heard about the camps in the East. This is a war like no other I have known, Achille.’ He shook his head, as if trying to shake away the memories. ‘Forgive me. Tell me of life here.’
‘Very well,’ Pujol sighed, accepting that Baillard would not tell his story until he was ready. ‘Pierre and old Breillac are gone,’ he said. ‘Gestapo. Both went down fighting. Young Guillaume is still fighting. Formed the Couiza Maquis with Yves Rousset. Do you know him?’
‘I know Madame Rousset.’
‘Guillaume’s wife Eloise is still hereabouts. Geneviève and Liesl stayed in Coustaussa with Marieta.’
A slow smile spread across Baillard’s face. ‘That is the best news yet, my friend. She was so ill, I feared she might not have survived another winter.’
‘I knew you’d be pleased,’ Pujol said with a satisfied smile. ‘Marieta’s still going strong. Will see the rest of us out, I don’t doubt. Looks after those girls like a mother hen.’
‘Good, ben.’ Baillard smiled, nodding his head. He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. ‘And Madomaisèla Sandrine and her sister?’
‘They both returned to Carcassonne shortly after you left. They do a great deal to help the résistants there. Taking messages, keeping lookout, what have you. Mademoiselle Ménard and her son stayed in Coustaussa for a time, but went back to Carcassonne last summer.’
‘Her son, you say?’
Pujol smiled. ‘Jean-Jacques. Bright as a button, must be eighteen months old by now.’
‘Tèn perdu, jhamâi se recobro,’ murmured Baillard, thinking of all he had missed and all that was yet to come. The joy as well as the sorrow.
‘What’s that you’re saying?’
‘Time lost can never be regained,’ Baillard translated. ‘An old Occitan proverb my grandmother, Esclarmonde, was rather fond of.’ He smiled. ‘And Sénher Pelletier?’
‘He, too, has proved to be a courageous man. With Guillaume and Yves some of the time, but travels to Carcassonne to help there too.’
Baillard raised his eyebrows. ‘And to see Madomaisèla Sandrine?’
‘That too,’ Pujol said impatiently. ‘But now, for pity’s sake, tell me where you’ve been.’
Baillard looked into the honest, anxious face of his friend. He raised his arms and then let them fall again, a gesture of resignation.
‘I was caught, Achille. That very day after I left you. A collaborator, pretending to be a partisan. Walked straight into a trap some two hours out of Ax-les-Thermes.’
Pujol drained his glass and poured himself another measure. The air in the kitchen was infused with the sweet smell of cherries.
‘Where did they take you?’
‘I was arrested, one of five or six raids that day.’ Baillard sighed. ‘They asked for me by name.’
‘Why?’
He shrugged. ‘I had done that route many times. Too many times, perhaps. Someone talked.’ He paused, as he took himself back to that day. ‘Two of those I was helping knew who I was – a Jewish scholar, quite brilliant, and a Dutch résistant – but did not give me away. I was able to give false information and so was charged under that name instead.’
‘That explains why “Baillard” didn’t show up on any lists,’ Pujol said. ‘I checked everywhere.’
Baillard smiled. ‘Thank you, my friend.’
Pujol flushed. ‘You’d have done the same for me,’ he said gruffly, then waved his hand for him to continue.
‘During those first weeks after I was arrested, I was moved from place to place. It was only after the Germans crossed the line and occupied the Midi as well that I was finally sent to a satellite camp close to Rivesaltes.’
‘So near,’ Pujol said, shaking his head. ‘If only I’d known you were there, Audric, I swear I would—’
‘I know, my friend. Don’t reproach yourself. We were the unwanted prisoners. Too old to fill the STO quotas, most of us veterans of other wars.’
‘Left to rot.’
‘That saved us,’ Baillard said simply. ‘We were not considered dangerous. They assumed that age and the bitter weather would do their work for them.’ He paused. ‘The worst of it was knowing how much needed to be done, but being trapped, unable to act.’
He fell silent, remembering his sense of frustration and rage. The endless tiny humiliations of the camp, the relentless grinding down of men’s spirits. The waste of life.
‘Audric,’ Pujol said gently, misinterpreting his silence, ‘you don’t have to go on if it’s too much.’
‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘If I do not, you will imagine things to be worse than they were.’
Baillard recounted the story of his incarceration and his escape, then gave a long sigh. He took a sip of Guignolet, letting the sugar and alcohol ease his bones, before continuing. ‘We waited until it was dark, then the Spaniard and I went our separate ways. García headed for the border. I came here.’
‘I still can’t quite believe it,’ Pujol said gruffly, digging in his pocket for a scrap of tobacco. He r
olled himself a thin cigarette. ‘You made good time, I’ll give you that. It must be a hundred and fifty kilometres, give or take.’
‘People were kind. I walked to Collioure, then found a lift almost all of the way to Belcaire. From there, cross-country to here.’
Pujol put out his hand and touched Baillard’s arm. ‘You can stay here as long as you want. You need to rest. Recover your strength.’
Baillard reached out and took the antique glass bottle from the table. ‘I have rested long enough, amic. This task I must now finish.’
Pujol’s expression changed. ‘Not that, Audric. Surely not now, after all this time. Why stir it all up again? Let sleeping dogs lie.’
For a moment, Baillard didn’t speak. He turned the bottle over in his hand, thinking about the precious information contained in the map.
‘Why, Audric?’
He sighed. ‘Because it was announced this morning on the wireless – I heard it at the Café de la Gare as I waited to see you – that Leo Authié is being sent back to the Midi. Although it is said he is to lead the fight against the Resistance, I do not believe that is the true reason.’
Pujol’s expression froze. ‘He’s just one man,’ he said eventually. ‘There are many like him. Leave it be, Baillard. The tide is turning in our favour. Don’t draw attention to yourself.’
Baillard met his gaze. ‘It is true that Führer Hitler is losing the war. And after the Allied success in northern France, it is likely he will pull back troops from the south to defend Paris and the eastern territories.’
‘Well then.’
Baillard shook his head. ‘Do you not understand, Achille? This will make Authié more dangerous, not less. More desperate. He is a clever man. He knows there is little time left. When the Wehrmacht leave the Midi, he is aware of what his fate will be. If he is to find the Codex, he needs to act now and be ready to leave when the Nazis withdraw.’
‘There’s not been a whisper they ever found out the document was a forgery,’ Pujol said. ‘Not a hint of it.’
‘Saurat is dead. He has family near Collioure, that’s why I went there first. His cousin told me he died in Montluc at the hands of Hauptsturmführer Barbie.’ He sighed. ‘He will have talked, Achille. For all his qualities, he was not a strong man.’