‘Good,’ von Liebermann said, eyeing his reflection
critically in the mirror. Satisfied, he removed his cap,
smoothed down his hair and turned back to his desk. ‘Did
you manage to discover who was behind the killing in the
forest?’
‘It was Halunke, as we suspected.’
‘Do we need to concern ourselves with it?’
‘I think not.’
Von Liebermann nodded, then looked down at the
document lying on his desk. It was an order he had received
from Herr Himmler, dated 9th April 1941. The instruction
was brief and to the point: Francois de Lorvoire was to be
shot.
It was now March 23rd 1942, almost a year later, and still
von Liebermann had not carried out the order. Of course,
Herr Himmler knew he hadn’t; when von Liebermann
pleaded for execution to be delayed, Himmler had been
pleased to indulge the General in his whim. Von Liebermann
badly wanted to see the game with Halunke played
out to the end. It amused him. It intrigued him. It also gave
him a feeling of inordinate power to be in control of two men
whose intellect, cunning and physical strength were
superior even to his own.
However, things had not gone well for von Liebermann
in Russia, and now Himmler had seen fit to withdraw his
indulgence and had reinstigated the order of execution on
de Lorvoire. It was to be carried out in any way von
Liebermann desired - but it was to be carried out.
‘So,’ he sighed, turning his pale eyes back to Helber who
had quietly taken a seat in front of his desk, ‘things have
gone well for Halunke these past few days. He deserves it.
Thanks to him, our colleagues in Touraine have not only
closed down an escape-line but have made over forty
arrests. And now they have made twelve more, including de
Lorvoire’s vigneron, de Lorvoire’s brother and de Lorvoire’s
wife.’ He chuckled. ‘Quite a coup. When will the shooting
take place?’
‘Within the week.’
Von Liebermann grunted. Then shifting his bulk a little
more comfortably in the chair, he said, ‘I am of the opinion
that things are a little unevenly balanced. I think it is time we
gave de Lorvoire his share of our help. We know, from the
treasures stored beneath his chateau, that the orders we
have given him during this visit to Vichy will be utterly
abhorrent to him, but he has agreed to carry them out. I
wonder if he will. I also wonder if he will find a way round
them. He has a brilliant mind, most enviable, but most
dangerous. But I would never have put him down for a
Jew-lover. You must warn your brother-in-law to keep a
very close eye on him. As Monsieur Laval said at our
meeting yesterday, it is high time this nation was cleansed of
the Jews, and we don’t want any of them escaping, do we?
‘Now, back to Halunke. You may inform him that he now
has a free hand to do as he wishes. But at the same time I am
going to give you, Max, the pleasure of revealing his identity
to de Lorvoire. You may do it in any way you wish,’ he
continued as Helber’s cheeks turned pink with pleasure,
‘but be on your guard at all times. I’m sure you won’t have
forgotten what de Lorvoire has threatened to do to you …
But you must tell him soon. He leaves for Lorvoire in three
days, tell him before he goes. Then take yourself off to the
Hotel Boule d’Or in Chinon. I will join you there as soon as I
am able. I have no intention of missing the final confrontation.’
The throbbing in Claudine’s head had not let up since she’d
arrived. Added to it now was the appalling ache in her limbs
brought on by the fact that she still wore the same clothes
she had been captured in. She was filthier than a street
urchin. Her hair was caked with mud, her face and hands
smeared with blood from the wound on her temple, and her
left eye was badly bruised and swollen.
She had been incarcerated in this cell for two days now
though with its rough stone walls and stench of decay it was
more like a dungeon. Through its single barred window, so
high that she couldn’t reach it even by standing on the bed,
she occasionally heard the sound of marching jackboots.
She had spent most of the time lying on the iron bed, her
arms clasped about her body in an effort to keep warm,;
trying to summon all her resources for the interrogation to
come. During the night, howls of agony had reverberated
through the cells. When she realized that they were
Lucien’s, her terror, and her blinding hatred of Armand,
had made her vomit again and again until there was nothing
left in her body.
What an actor he was, she thought now. He had even
gone as far as faking cowardice the night they were arrested,
when he had orchestrated the arrest himself! He had
revealed his true self only once, with that look of raw hatred,
of pure savagery, that had come over his face that day in the
forest. Then, she had known beyond doubt that he was
Halunke; her hackles had risen like a cat’s in the presence of
evil. But great actor that he was, he had never given himself
away until that day. And perhaps his best performance of all
had been at dawn this morning, when he cried out as if
Raider an extremity of torture. Even so, his cries had not had
the same chillingly authentic ring as Lucien’s. Lucien’s
screams could even now, hours after they had ceased, send a
shiver of terror down her spine.
After that, it had been quiet. Then, an hour or more ago,
there had been some kind of commotion at the other end of
the passage - footsteps up and down the stone steps, heavy
whispers and the clanging of doors. She wondered where
Yves and Thomas were being held, and her heart filled with
pity for the two old men who had been drawn into this
horrifying web of revenge.
She still had no idea what motivated Armand. Certainly
he hated her for the way he felt she had treated him, but
there was something else, something darker and deeper.
She had been nothing more than an instrument of his
revenge - but how he must have enjoyed it that Francois de
Lorvoire’s wife had given herself to him so willingly! And
her usefulness as a means of inflicting pain on Francois was
certainly not exhausted yet. She would be tortured, and
Francois, when he heard of it, would find that even more
insupportable than his own sufferings at the hands of the
Abwehr.
She tensed suddenly. In the distance she heard a door
open and close, a heavy, echoing tread in the stone passage
outside. She knew, even before the bolts were scraped back on her door, that they were coming for her.
The door creaked open, and only then did she hear the
other, lighter footsteps. The uniformed guard snapped at
her to get up, and obediently she forced her aching legs to
move. She could smell the foul odour of her clothes as she
unwound her arms and dragged her head from the pillow,
and once again her stomach was gripped with nausea.
‘You may remain seated,’ a voice barked as she started to
pull herself to her feet, and looking up, she saw her
interrogators standing at the door. There was no mistaking
the Gestapo, she thought grimly, in their black Homburg
hats and leather overcoats.
Now that fear was starting to pump adrenalin through her
body, she was feeling stronger. She watched as the man who
had spoken to her clicked his fingers at his companion, and
pointed to a spot beside the bed. Immediately a chair was
produced, and the guard bolted the door.
Claudine studied the face of the man who sat down
beside her. His skin was pale and slightly pockmarked, his
eyes a translucent blue and his mouth a narrow band of
concentration. There was no hint of the brutishness she
had expected to see, but there was no trace of compassion
either.
He smiled, revealing an ugly gap in his front teeth. ‘So,’
he said, ‘you are the Comtesse de Lorvoire. I have heard a
great deal about you, madame’
She said nothing, and he smiled again. Then they both
turned as the grid in the door scraped open and the guard’s
face appeared.
‘Everything is ready, Herr Schmidt.’
The grid remained open and Schmidt’s companion went
to stand beside it. Schmidt folded his arms, crossed one leg
casually over the other and said, ‘Leopard.’
Claudine stared at him.
‘AH you have to tell us, madame, is Leopard’s identity and
the location of his camp. Then you may go home.’
Claudine was astonished. Surely Armand had already
told them all about Lucien? And as for going home, the
circumstances of her arrest proved she was a Resistante, and Resistants were never released - unless of course they turned collaborator.
‘I should tell you, madame,’ Schmidt continued, ‘that you
will make it much easier on your vigneron if you cooperate.’
Her eyes narrowed for an instant, then she smiled. They
were simply trying to throw her off the scent. Well, let them
go ahead with their macabre pantomime. Unless she saw
Armand suffer with her own eyes, she wasn’t buying it.
‘I repeat, madame,’ Schmidt said affably, ‘Leopard’s identity and the location of his camp, if you please.’
Claudine’s face was expressionless as she gazed back at
him.
Schmidt cast a look at his accomplice, who nodded to the
guard. A few moments later she heard Armand scream.
She flinched, and waited for the echo to die away before
turning back to Schmidt. She was on the point of telling him
that she was not convinced, when she stopped. If she let
them know that she knew who Armand really was, they
would undoubtedly abandon this farce and subject her to a
much more personal method of torture.
‘We know, madame,’ Schmidt said, ‘that you are in
regular contact with Leopard. So please, think of your vigneron and tell us where we can find him.’
Her silence brought another scream of pain from the
adjacent cell. Schmidt looked at her expectantly, but when
she still remained silent he scratched his nose and said,
‘Perhaps I should tell you exactly what my colleagues are
doing to your vigneron.’ He raised his eyebrows questioningly,
and she did the same. ‘They are removing his
teeth,’ he said bluntly.
Claudine suppressed a shudder and reminded herself
that this was all a sham.
‘All right,’ Schmidt sighed, uncrossing his legs. ‘Let’s
talk about the destination of the British agents who landed
outside Brossay the other night. Where were you intending
to take them?’
‘Home,’ Claudine answered.
‘Ah, a joke. Very amusing. Shall we see if your vigneron, your ex-lover, is entertained by your misguided sense of humour?’
Armand’s cry howled through the cells. Claudine visibly
blanched as she heard him cough and splutter, as though
choking on his own blood.
‘Where were you taking them!’ Schmidt barked.
‘Nowhere!’ she shouted back.
‘Where were you taking them?’
‘Nowhere!’
Armand screamed again.
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know!’
‘Where?
‘I don’t know?
Armand’s agony bounced from the walls. The noise was
unbearable, Claudine covered her ears.
‘Names and addresses!’
‘I don’t know!’
It went on like that, a steady crescendo of interrogation,
denial, agony. The screams became inhuman. Scream after
scream after scream, a never-ending explosion of noise.
At last Schmidt stood up. ‘You have until five o’clock this
afternoon to tell us what we want to know,’ he said, looking
down at Claudine’s bowed head. ‘If you do not tell us, the vigneron will be shot.’
The door swung open and he left. The other man stayed,
no doubt to await her confession. But shaken as she was, her
resolve was as firm now as it had been when they began. She
hadn’t been taken in, not even for a moment. It was all a
farce! Why else were they torturing him in another cell? And
nothing short of seeing Armand drop before the firing
squad would convince her now that he wasn’t Halunke.
Helber was standing just inside the door of Francois’ hotel
room. Francois himself was seated in a winged armchair
near the window, his head almost imperceptibly bowed.
Helber was watching de Lorvoire’s face very closely. It gave
nothing away, but Helber knew he was on extremely
dangerous ground now, for he had just informed de
Lorvoire of his wife’s arrest.
If he had been able to look inside Francois’ mind he
would have seen the final pieces of an almost complete
jigsaw being fitted into the unholy pattern that made up
Halunke’s revenge - until the only piece missing was the
one that gave Halunke his motive. Only that piece would tell
Francois for certain whether his suspicion was correct. It
was a suspicion that had taken root in his mind some time
ago now; a suspicion so abhorrent, so devastating, that he
had refused to give it the nourishment of thought.