The FitzOsbornes in Exile (31 page)

“I think I
will
go up on deck,” says Toby hurriedly. “Simon, join me?”

Off they go through the Palm Court. Veronica frowns at one of the pages, gets out her pencil, and makes yet another note in the margin. I don’t think Toby’s managed to get all the way through it yet—Veronica keeps interrupting to change the wording, then Toby accidentally omits a sentence or misreads a phrase and has to start again, whereupon Simon tells him to slow down or vary his intonation …

Oh, here come the Customs and Passport men. Very efficient of them, doing all the paperwork on board the ferry before we arrive in Calais. They’re giving our Montmaravian passports very odd looks, though. Now Veronica is lecturing the Passport men about Montmaravian history, and they’re backing away slowly. The clock’s striking two, we’ll be there soon …

On board the Flèche d’Or, the French version of the Golden Arrow. It suddenly seems quite remarkable to me that one can spend an hour or so on a ferry and then find oneself in a
completely different country
. This is my first time on the Continent (on
any
continent), so I am going to note down all my impressions very carefully. It seems warmer here than in England, but the sea smells the same. I wore my best suit today and was still worried I’d look terribly drab beside all the chic Frenchwomen, but the few ladies I’ve seen so far are no more stylishly dressed than those in London. That woman climbing up the steps into the carriage, for example, shapeless beige skirt and salmon-pink blouse … Oh, she’s English, I just heard her complaining about the heat in pure Cockney. Well, I expect most of the train passengers
are
English. The men on the platform are slightly more exotic-looking. There are a lot of mustaches, and one man is sporting both a mustache
and
a beret … Now,
there’s
an interesting man, tall and military-looking, beautifully cut dark suit, bet he had it tailored in Paris. He’s rushing onto the platform, but too late, the guards are closing the carriage doors. He turns towards our window and—

IT’S GEBHARDT!

22nd August 1939

Not sure of the time, or even where we are. Well, I know where
I
am, sort of, but Toby’s and Veronica’s whereabouts are a terrible mystery. I’m going to write down everything, though, now that I have a spare moment. Just in case … No.
Must
keep thinking positive thoughts.

So—the train was about to depart from the station at Calais, and the four of us were leaning out, or against, the large open window of our compartment. Then several things happened, all at once:

1. Simon sneezed.

2. I realized why the man on the platform had caught my attention and yelped, “Gebhardt!”

3. Toby said, “Don’t you mean ‘gesundheit’?”

and

4. Veronica yanked us all down below the windowsill.

A whistle blew, the engine roared, and Simon hissed, “Quick, see what he’s doing! Which one is he?”

“The tall one, white hair,” Veronica said, peeking round the edge of the window. “He saw us! He’s shouting at the guard on the platform … Wait, I think I recognize the man behind him, he’s one of the soldiers who searched the castle!”

I risked a glance as the carriage trembled. I saw the platform had begun to move, falling away behind us.

“Yes, it’s that red-haired man,” I said. “Look, Gebhardt’s limping!”

“Good!” said Veronica. “I hope that bite Carlos gave him got infected and they had to chop off his leg. That might slow him down.”

“Wait, this is the Nazi officer who ordered the bombing of Montmaray?” said Toby, finally catching up. “What’s
he
doing here?”

“Trying to stop
you
, of course!” snapped Simon. “Seeing as you’re about to make a formal complaint about him to the League of Nations!”

“And Hitler wouldn’t want yet more evidence of German aggression being aired at this Council meeting,” said Veronica. “Not right now.”

“Perhaps Gebhardt wants more revenge,” I said shakily. Simon put a comforting arm around me, but it wasn’t much help. The sight of Gebhardt had kicked open a box of sickening memories that I’d thought I’d locked away forever.

“Well, he can’t stop the train, can he?” Toby said. “He can’t do anything now till we get to Paris, and what’s he going to do
there
, shoot me in cold blood in the middle of Gare du Nord?”

“You don’t know him!” I said, turning on Toby. “You didn’t meet him, you don’t know what he’s capable of!” And I couldn’t help thinking of poor dead Otto Rahn …

“Gebhardt’s utterly ruthless,” agreed Veronica, chewing her lip. “And he wasn’t in uniform. What if he works at the German Embassy in Paris? That might explain how he knew we’d be here. He must have got hold of the agenda for the Council meeting and guessed we’d take this train. And diplomats don’t have to follow local laws.”

“The police could refuse to arrest him,” said Simon. “Besides, he hasn’t done anything yet. It’s not illegal to try to catch a train.”

“What are we going to
do
?” I almost screamed. My rising panic was blocking all attempts at rational thought.

“Let’s move to another carriage, for a start,” said Veronica. “He saw which compartment we were in—let’s not make it any easier for him.”

We jumped up and made our way towards the back of the train as fast as the swaying corridors would allow. Veronica and I kept a nervous eye out for Nazis, but we didn’t spot any other familiar faces. Fortunately, the train was far from full, and we found an empty compartment in a second-class carriage. We huddled there together, glancing up anxiously at each passing footfall.

“Right,” said Simon in a low voice. “We need to figure out a plan. We arrive in Paris at Gare du Nord at about half past five. We’re supposed to take a taxi to another station, Gare de Lyon, and catch the southbound train to Geneva an hour later, but—”

“But that’s what they’ll be expecting us to do,” I said. My mind was suddenly, miraculously, clear. “I think we ought to split up as soon as the train stops in Paris. Much harder for them to chase after two groups. Simon, where are those train timetables?”

“Toby’s the important one,” Veronica reminded us as Simon and I examined the timetables. “He has to get to Geneva in time for the meeting at two o’clock tomorrow. It doesn’t matter if the rest of us are late or if we get—”

The carriage jolted and we all gasped, our gazes flying towards the window. But it was a stone on the tracks, or a splutter of the engine, nothing more ominous than that. The train gathered itself up and sped onwards. Outside the window lay the battlegrounds of the Somme, fields of white crosses and red poppies spread out over the shattered skeletons of a million soldiers. I could tell the others were thinking of the war, too—the last one as well as the one that was threatening to erupt at any moment. I forced myself to concentrate on the timetables in my lap.

“All right,” I said. “The Simplon Orient Express leaves Gare de Lyon at half past ten this evening. Veronica, you and Toby take that. It doesn’t go to Geneva, but it stops in Lausanne early tomorrow morning. How far is Lausanne from Geneva?”

“About forty miles, I think,” said Simon. “The Swiss are very efficient, it couldn’t be more than an hour or so by the local train. Or you could hire a car. I think they even have boats that travel down Lake Geneva.”

“You’ll be at the hotel in time for breakfast,” I said. “Don’t worry about waiting for your luggage when we get to Paris. Simon and I will manage that. Then we’ll catch the first train to Lyon we can find, and …” I peered at the timetables, but no immediate solution presented itself. “Well, it’s not far to the Swiss border from there. We might have to catch a train tomorrow morning. We’ll meet you at the Palais des Nations in time for the afternoon session of the Council.”

And to my amazement, the first part of the plan worked beautifully. My wild and fearful imagination had conjured images of Gebhardt blocking the railway tracks with his car, flinging grenades at the engine driver, even landing a Nazi parachutist on the roof of our carriage, but the Flèche d’Or slid unhindered into Gare du Nord at exactly 5:35 p.m., right on time. The instant the train came to a halt, Toby and Veronica hurled themselves out onto the platform and raced off towards the exit, almost bowling over a startled porter. I could only pray the Orient Express wasn’t booked out, and that they’d manage to get tickets for that evening. Meanwhile, Simon and I took our time gathering up our possessions. We were the last passengers to step down from the carriage, having carefully scanned the platform first.

“I’m pretty sure the train from Calais is faster than any car,” said Simon. “Although if Gebhardt
is
a diplomat, he’s free to ignore the usual road rules.”

“He could have telephoned ahead and arranged to have someone waiting here in Paris for us,” I pointed out. I kept a tense watch as Simon collected our luggage, engaged a porter, found a taxi, and got us and the bags into it. Then we sped off down Boulevard de Magenta, Simon and I whipping our heads back and forth to see if anyone was following us.

“But, really, it makes more sense that Gebhardt would have told any accomplice of his to go straight to Gare de Lyon,” said Simon. “All the Switzerland-bound trains depart from there.”

“Oh, so we’re driving directly into an ambush? That’s
such
a comfort to know,” I said crossly. The heat was stifling, my neck hurt from all the frantic head-turning, and not only was Gebhardt trying to
kill
us (or at least delay us in some extremely unpleasant Nazi manner), but he had ruined my first glimpse of Paris. One of the most beautiful and important cities in the world, and I was too anxious to take it in properly. I did see the top of the Eiffel Tower, somewhere off to my right, and the taxi driver pointed out the place where the Bastille had stood. But, all at once, we were there, at Gare de Lyon.

“You wait here while I go in and find out about the trains to Lyon,” Simon said. “Gebhardt might recognize you—”

“We
want
him to recognize me!” I whispered back (because the driver was starting to give us very suspicious looks by then). “We have to draw him away from Toby and Veronica! They might still be in there, buying their train tickets!”

And I heaved my bag up and stomped off towards the station entrance while Simon was still fumbling through his wad of francs to pay the driver. I was so annoyed by that stage that I almost hoped I
would
encounter Gebhardt—perhaps I could drop my bag on his good foot and completely cripple him. The bag weighed a ton, because I hadn’t been able to decide between several outfits, and I’d brought along
Les Misérables
(to read) and my mother’s still-undeciphered diary (for luck). I plunked myself and the bag down near the doorway and peered around the station. Nothing. A few minutes later, Simon arrived, looking hot and bothered.

“Well?” he said.

“Not a sign of anyone,” I said. “Friend or foe.”

“There’s a train to Lyon in thirty-five minutes,” said Simon. “Here’s your ticket, in case we get separated. Let’s go and have a drink—there’s a café over there.”

Still no one appeared. Our train arrived; we boarded one of the rather shabby carriages, shoved our bags in the luggage rack, and sat down on the thinly padded bench. It was only after the train had begun to rattle off that I caught sight of our nemesis running onto the platform, looking in quite the wrong direction. I wrenched up the window, thrust my head out, and screamed, “Hello, Herr Gebhardt!” For good measure, I took off my hat and waved it at him.

“What are you
doing
?” exclaimed Simon, yanking me back inside.

“Luring him away from Toby and Veronica,” I said, watching with great satisfaction as Gebhardt and his red-haired colleague started huffing and puffing along the platform after us. They came to the end of the platform, grew smaller, then vanished from our sight. “Gosh, it’s just not his
day
for catching trains, is it?”

“You do realize that this is the
slow
train?” said Simon, sounding thoroughly exasperated. “He’ll simply get back in his high-speed Mercedes-Benz and chase after us till we stop at some little town, then he’ll storm on board and—”

“He only knows Veronica and me,” I said. “He might have seen a photograph of Toby, but he doesn’t know you at all. I think the two of us have a very good chance of getting away.”

“Well, let’s find somewhere else to sit,” Simon said, raking his hand through his hair in agitation. “And do something to change your appearance.”

We finally settled on the last carriage as the safest place. “There’s a baggage car on the end—we can hide in there,” said Simon, looking down the corridor.

“And we’re right beside the doors,” I said. “We can jump out onto the tracks if we have to.” I’d taken off my jacket and hat, and hidden my hair under a scarf of Veronica’s. “You keep an eye on that window, I’ll take this one.”

The train made several stops, more passengers getting off than on, but there was no sign of our pursuers. “Where are we now?” I asked.

“God knows,” said Simon, peering out the grimy window. “I feel as though we’ve been traveling for days.” The sun was slowly sinking, a blazing ball in an orange sky, but it didn’t feel any cooler. The window beside me refused to budge, and the carriage was stifling. The atmosphere wasn’t helped any by the ancient gentleman sitting opposite us, puffing away at a foul-smelling pipe. I leaned against the window, fighting my drowsiness with decreasing success. The train slowed down again … Another town appeared, then receded … The gentleman picked up his moth-eaten carpetbag and shuffled off down the corridor, to be replaced by a pair of old ladies in black dresses with white lace collars …

Suddenly Simon swore.

“It’s them!” he hissed.

Instantly awake, I stared out the window. Gebhardt was talking to the guard at the front of the train, and the red-haired soldier was running down the platform, towards the last door of the last carriage—towards us! Cutting off our escape route, stopping us from getting to the baggage car!

“Quick, put your arms around me,” said Simon.

“What?”

As the door to our carriage was flung open, Simon pushed me into the corner of our compartment and covered my body with his. One of his hands turned my face towards his, and I instinctively clutched at his shoulder, my other arm going round his waist. To anyone passing by, we were young lovers, overcome with passion on a sultry summer’s evening. At least, I
hoped
that’s what we resembled. My face pressed to Simon’s neck, my heart hammering even faster than his rapid pulse, I heard the stomp, stomp, stomp of boots along the wooden floor. The noise ceased, mere yards from us.

“Don’t look,” murmured Simon into my ear. I could feel the tension in all the muscles of his back.

The boots made a scraping sound. Was the man turning for a closer look at us? Then the footsteps started up again—moving
away
from us, towards the front of the train. A door slammed. Simon shifted his weight slightly, trying to look out the window. There were angry shouts from the next carriage—in French, not German. There was a thud and a series of heavy, rapid footfalls.

“Is that … ?” I whispered. Was Gebhardt on board now? There was no way we’d fool
him
. We braced ourselves, waiting for the blow to fall.

There was another thump. I heard the guard’s voice and then a shrill whistle.

“They’re both back on the platform!” said Simon. The engine groaned, and heaved itself forward. There was the sound of raised voices—the stationmaster yelling at the Nazis.

“Thank God the French hate the Germans even more than we do,” said Simon. “Gebhardt probably thinks we left the train at the first stop.”

“Right,” I said rather breathlessly. “Well, you can get off me now.”

“Oh, sorry,” he said, doing so at once. I sat up and adjusted my scarf, which had become somewhat disarranged during our … entanglement. I wasn’t sure if the experience counted as my first kiss (there
had
been some accidental lip contact), but it had certainly been exciting. Just not in the way I’d always hoped. It hadn’t even been very private—the two elderly ladies were now gazing at us with great interest. I felt myself turning scarlet. One of them said something to me in rapid French.