Once More Unto the Breach Page 8

  I chuckled. “I suppose it would not.”

  We found the missionary house easily with the old blind man’s directions, and a woman greeted us as soon as we entered the arched doorway. After Charlotte conversed with her in hushed tones, she led us through the building to the library. The place was still with the hallowed quiet generally reserved for a church. The smell of old paper permeated the room, and light streamed through the high arched windows. We wandered further within, and Charlotte finally released her hold on my arm. The shelves were set up like a set of ribs down the long, narrow room.

  The woman who escorted us called out. When there was no response, she spoke to Charlotte in hushed tones and withdrew from the room.

  “She invited us to wait here while she finds the librarian.” Charlotte wandered down the long spine of the room, glancing down the rows of shelves.

  I followed and slipped between the shelves to study the collection. I could not read any of the titles on the heavy leather tomes save for one on a shelf above my head. The leather was worn along the edges of the cracked spine. The gilded script read La Bible.

  It was large and weighty, and when I pulled it from the shelf, I realized the pages bulged around a thin panel of wood tucked within. I cradled the spine in my hand and opened the book with care.

  The fine pages wafted aside to reveal a painting hidden in the center of the book. It was a portrait, done in dark, muted colors.

  I kept my voice low when I called Charlotte’s name, and after a moment, she slipped around the shelves and joined me. I held the bible out to her wordlessly.

  Her brow wrinkled as she approached, and then her eyes widened as she took in what I held. Her indrawn breath was audible.

  “Rhys.” Her voice was a breath of sound, and awe laced her tone. “I think…I think this is a Rembrandt.”

  “The Dutch painter?”

  Her fingers hovered over the painting without touching it. “Painter, printmaker, draughtsman. The man epitomized the word master in the arts.” She eyed the laden shelves around us. “What else is hidden here?”

  “Bonjour?” a soft, feminine voice called from out of sight.

  Charlotte started, and I carefully closed the bible around the painting and slipped it back onto the high shelf.

  Charlotte exited the row ahead of me as the speaker stepped around the shelves at the far end of the room and came toward us. She was young and plainly dressed, but her face was lovely and accented by the dark scarf wrapped decoratively around her head. “Puis-je vous aider?”

  Charlotte answered her. “Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la campagne, je partirai.”

  The woman flinched as if Charlotte had struck her and then her eyes went wide when she focused on me. Her throat worked visibly before she spoke again. “Vois-tu, je sais que tu m’attends. J’irai par la forêt, j’irai par la montagne. Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.” Her voice trembled.

  When Charlotte relaxed, I knew her response was what Benoit told Charlotte to look for. She started to speak again, but the woman held up her hand, indicating silence. She glanced over her shoulder at the empty doorway.

  “You cannot be here,” the woman whispered in heavily accented English.

  “I am—”

  “I know whom you are. You cannot be here. They are watching.”

  “Who is watching?” Charlotte darted a glance at me.

  The woman shook her head, wringing her hands.

  “You recognized me,” I said.

  “Owain favors you strongly. He is not here, if you seek him.”

  “When did you see him last?”

  She shrugged and paced past us to straighten a shelf of books. “It was last month that I saw him. We do not see him regularly, and we do not always know when he will come and need shelter.”

  “We?” Charlotte asked.

  A knock sounded on the door and it cracked open immediately to reveal a middle-aged man dressed in the vestments of priesthood. “Nanette?” As he spoke, Charlotte glanced back and forth between the two of them. The young woman swallowed, throat working, and her voice was hoarse when she responded to the priest.

  He came further into the room at her words. “You are Owain’s father?”

  “I am. I am searching for him. If you have any word, any knowledge of his whereabouts, it would aid me.”

  “He and Sévèrin were here possibly five weeks ago, it was. We—”

  The young woman yelped as Charlotte reached up suddenly and yanked the scarf from her head. Her hair, like the woman’s on the street, was closely and roughly shorn. The woman’s eyes closed, and she fell to her knees before the priest.

  His face paled, and his hand trembled as he reached out as if to touch her head, but only allowed his fingers to ghost over her shorn hair. “Oh, Nanette. What have you done?”

  “My god,” Charlotte said. “You are not a Jewish sympathizer. You’re a Nazi sympathizer.”

  The woman looked up at the priest, and a lone tear rolled down her cheek. A torrent of French fell from her lips, but I interrupted her. “Did you betray my son?”

  She flinched, and she turned to me but did not lift her gaze to meet mine. “I had to.”

  Charlotte drew her gun and pointed the pistol at the woman’s head. She bowed her head, shoulders slumped. The priest knelt beside her, shielding her, and before I could put the question to her, he asked, “Why?” in a voice that cracked.

  Words poured from her in a sodden torrent, and I watched the priest’s face crumble at her explanation. He swallowed audibly, and this time he allowed his hand to rest on her head. “You foolish, foolish child.”

  “Where would Owain have gone from here? Look at me,” I said, voice hard when she began to cry, waiting until her damp gaze met mine before continuing. “You know the next stop in his network?”

  The priest answered for her. “There are caves along the Rhône in a village called La Balme-les-Grottes.”

  I turned and walked away, striding through the building and out into the afternoon sunlight. I bent double, bracing my hands on my knees as I struggled to draw air into my lungs. I flinched at the soft touch on my back, and as I straightened, Charlotte’s hand fell away.

  “Why did she betray Owain?”

  Charlotte sighed. “They threatened the priest and the library, telling her they would drag the man and the entire collection into the streets and set both alight.”

  There was no comfort in knowing she had exchanged my son’s life for another’s. “If what she says is true, we need to leave. I cannot afford to delay. Not now that…” My voice caught.

  “I know.” She tucked her hand into the crook of my elbow. “Free French or Milice, I do not care to be waylaid by either. They do not ask questions. They interrogate.”

  Her footsteps were hurried as we moved along the narrow streets, but I covered her tense fingers with mine and slowed the pace. “We will only draw attention if we race.”

  She nodded, gaze straight ahead, spine rigid. We picked the streets we traversed at random, pausing only long enough to ensure we were not turning onto an alley that ended at a stone wall. I made certain that at every turn, I darted a glance over my shoulder.

  “How quickly can you get the ambulance running?”

  “It will take me a moment to replace the distributor cap.”

  “Then we need to split up to allow you that time.”

  “We are being followed.” Her steps faltered, but she did not look back.

  “Aye. Only one man, though he is the only one I have seen. That does not mean there are not others.”

  “The Free French will think we are German contacts of hers. The Milice will think we are part of your son’s network.”

  “And we cannot afford either assumption.”

  “Can you find your way back to the ambulance?”

  I looked to the sky. The rooftops were not nearly so high and dense as in Pa
ris, and the sun’s westward list was clearly visible. “I can find it. Quickly now, when we take this next corner, you take the cross street and get back to the ambulance. I will follow shortly.” We made the turn and picked up our pace. The next street leading north was narrow, but it crossed through to the street running parallel to the one we were on. I glanced back. The man who had been following us since we left the missionary house had not yet turned the corner. “Go!”

  She bolted from my side, racing up the side street. I strode on, only looking back once I was well away from the street Charlotte had taken. The man still followed, glancing down the side streets as he passed. He made no effort to conceal himself from my view but followed me doggedly as I wound my way through the city, pressing ever north.

  The city center fell behind me, and I was soon in the outskirts of Vichy, drawing closer to where Charlotte had hidden the ambulance. I turned a corner and then quickly ducked into an adjacent alley, pressing back against the rough stone. I unbuttoned my shirt partway for easier access to the Luger I carried in the concealed holster. It felt heavy at my side.

  When the man passed by the mouth of the alley, I moved. I was a head taller than he, and catching him around the neck, using his own forward momentum to swing him around and slam him into the stone wall was a simple matter. He staggered but shoved off the wall and sent an elbow flying back at me. He was used to fighting shorter men, for his elbow would have connected with my shoulder had the blow landed. I stepped out of his range but pressed my own advantage of longer arms by reaching out and clapping both palms over his ears with a force like a double blow of hammers against an anvil.

  He went down like a sack of stones, cradling his head, and I gave him several moments for the ringing in his ears to cease. “Who are you, and what do you want?” I kicked his leg. “Why are you following me?”

  He merely smiled up at me before his gaze darted behind me.

  I ducked to the side, and the bullet grazed a furrow over my shoulder instead of burying itself in the back of my neck. I was deafened for an instant by the report, but it did not stop me from drawing the Luger and firing twice at the mouth of the alley and then putting a bullet in the chest of the man at my feet as he scrambled to draw his own weapon. It clattered against the cobbles as he slumped to his side, and I dropped into a crouch, snatching up his fallen revolver.

  I tucked the revolver into the waistband of my trousers as I crept to the end of the alley and knelt before risking a glance around the corner. A bullet bit into the rock above my head, and stone shards pelted my skin before I ducked back. The shot had come from an alley about ten meters west of the one in which I knelt. I retreated to where the dead man lay in a folded heap and fisted my hand in the collar of his shirt, dragging him to the mouth of the alley and propping him against the wall.

  I straightened and took a deep breath before nudging the dead man so that his shoulder and side were exposed to fire. Bullets tore into him immediately, and I leaned around the corner and fired the Luger three times in quick succession. One of the bullets found its mark in the shooter’s knee, and he cried out as he crumpled into the street. Two men darted from the alley to drag him to safety, and I fired twice more, catching one man in the arm. I squeezed the trigger again only to be met with a click.

  I ducked back into the alley. The jointed arm of the Luger was bent and locked, the breech open and empty. I was out of bullets. I holstered the pistol and retrieved the revolver. Four rounds were left in its cylinder. I rolled my shoulders, feeling the flaring burn in the right. The alley was a dead-end, and I had no desire to be trapped like a hunted hare.

  The sound of an engine reached me as I prepared to take my chances in the street. It was a rumble I recognized, and as the sound grew louder and closer, gunfire erupted again, this time not directed at me but at the approaching ambulance.

  I swung the cylinder back into the frame on the revolver, stepped from my hiding place, and fired two rounds, sending the men ducking back into the alley. I turned and raced down the street, heart thundering in time with my feet hitting the cobbles. The ambulance sped toward me as I sprinted toward it, and bullets punched through the windscreen even as they kicked up dirt and rocks around me. Charlotte slowed the vehicle only enough for me to throw myself within before she slammed the ambulance into reverse with a groan of gears and squeal of tires.

  I crouched on the floorboards, chest heaving, shoulder throbbing. “Stay low.”

  She was hunched so low I was not certain she could even see over the wheel, but she nodded, not taking her gaze from where it darted back and forth between the side mirrors as she sped backward down the street. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.” I leaned out the side of the ambulance far enough to fire the last two bullets in the revolver at the men shooting at us. “You?”

  “No. Hold on.” She wrenched the wheel, and only my grip on the doorframe kept me from being tossed into the street as the ambulance swerved to the right, rocking as it came to an abrupt halt. There was a thump in the back, and Otto barked wildly. The vehicle protested once more as Charlotte threw it into gear and accelerated down the street with the engine roaring.

  I climbed into the seat and hung my head as I tried to steady my breathing. My vision and stomach remained steady, but blood pounded in my temples. The revolver dangled from my numb fingers, and I tucked it into the waistband of my trousers once again.

  Charlotte straightened and glanced at me, eyes widening. “You said you weren’t hurt!”

  I craned my neck to look at my shoulder. A bright red stain had crept down my shirtfront and sleeve. “It’s just a graze, it is. I’ll see to it later.”

  We sped through the streets, heading east out of the city, and I watched the side mirror for the inevitable. It only took minutes for them to appear. “We have company.”

  Before I could finish the sentence, there was a bang, and the ambulance lurched. Charlotte’s hands tightened on the wheel.

  “What was that?”

  “They shot a tire,” she said, voice grim. Her hand left the wheel and disappeared by her side before she reached across her body and offered me her Colt. “You have seven rounds. Wait until they’re close.”

  “Can you lose them?”

  “How many?”

  I kept an eye on the side mirror. “Three on motorcycles.”

  She shifted gears and made a sharp turn, then another, taking corners quickly, hands steady on the wheel as she weaved through the streets until we were out of Vichy and speeding into the countryside. “Still behind us?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “It’s only a matter of time.” She brought the vehicle to a quick halt as we reached an arched stone bridge and leapt out. She was climbing back into the driver’s seat in a matter of seconds. “The tire is losing pressure swiftly.”

  “How much time do we have?”

  “Not enough.”

  “Then we will go as far as we can. I’ll need the rifle.” I handed Charlotte her Colt and opened the door into the back of the ambulance. The poodle greeted me with an anxious whine, and I placed a hand on his bent head. “Hush, Otto bach. Go and cwtch down. All will be well.” I looked at Wilhelm. “I may have need of the rifle.”

  “We are being pursued?”

  Charlotte froze in the act of putting the ambulance in gear at the words spoken in accented English and darted a glance at me over her shoulder.

  “Aye.”

  He fumbled in the pocket of his trousers and handed me a loaded box magazine. “For the Luger. I always carry a spare.”

  I nodded my thanks and inserted the magazine into the hand grip of the Luger, pulling the jointed arm until it unlocked and snapped straight, chambering a round. I holstered the pistol and reached for the rifle, but he clung to it.

  “Allow me to gain you time.” I hesitated. “I owe you a debt. Allow me to repay it.”

  “They will kill you once you run out of bullets.”<
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  “I am already dead, you know this.” The putrid odor emanating from him echoed his words. He reached up and caught Otto’s muzzle, bringing the dog’s head down until their foreheads rested against one another. Otto licked the man’s cheek, and the laugh that escaped Wilhelm sounded waterlogged. He murmured to the animal in German, and then he tilted his head back to look at Charlotte. “Do not allow Otto out. He will try to return to me. Tell him bleib for stay, fuss for heel, platz for down.” The poodle dropped onto his belly at the last command.

  Charlotte swallowed. “I’ll take care of him.”

  The German smiled. “I know.”

  She held onto the dog as I carried Wilhelm from the ambulance and, at his direction, leaned him against the stone balustrade at the end of the bridge. He grimaced, and the seated position made dark, foul smelling blood ooze from his abdomen. Otto began to bark, high pitched and frantic, as Charlotte closed him in the back of the ambulance and approached with the rifle.

  I reached for the firearm, but she knelt before Wilhelm and handed it to him. “Thank you.”

  The water flowing under the bridge sighed and sang, and a bird warbled in the trees. A breeze swept over us, and Wilhelm closed his eyes and tilted his head back, allowing the sun to caress his face. His eyes snapped open at the rumble of approaching engines.

  “Go!” he barked.

  I clasped his shoulder, and then I caught Charlotte’s elbow and pulled her to her feet. We ran, and I tossed Charlotte up into the ambulance and scrambled in after her. She hesitated for a brief moment, glancing back to where we had left Wilhelm, and then she put the ambulance in gear. We rumbled over the bridge, picked up speed on the other side, and were out of sight when we heard the first gunshots and then the cacophony of a firefight. Otto howled in the back of the ambulance.

  1 February 1941

  Dear Nhad,

  Some acquaintances have been arrested.

  I do not know what will become of Vildé and the others. But at this point,

  I know it would be naïve to hope to even see them again.