Legacy of Hate Read online

  ‘Of course. It is the vegetables, you see. I must deliver them by dawn.’

  ‘I see. And when will you bring me back?’

  ‘Tomorrow night.’

  ‘Very good. Wait outside.’

  He grinned at her. ‘I would rather wait in here.’

  ‘Outside.’

  He hesitated, shrugged, and left the room. Rachel took off her pyjamas and put on her underclothes, added trousers and a thick shirt, a jerkin, heavy shoes, and resumed the topcoat. She decided against taking a change if she would be back tomorrow night. Then she checked her revolver and put it in her coat pocket, dropped six spare bullets into her shoulder bag, together with her capsule — she hated carrying it in her mouth and she had to presume that Monterre was loyal. Finally, she turned down the gas.

  Monterre had been leaning against the wall with his arms folded. ‘You were very quick.’

  ‘I thought you might be in a hurry.’

  ‘Never hurry,’ he said enigmatically. ‘Mind how you go.’ Rachel had been up and down the stairs sufficient times to know her way, even in the dark, and a moment later she was on the pavement, holding her coat tight against the cold wind. ‘It will be warm in the van,’ Monterre assured her, indicating the vehicle that waited at the corner, giving off a high smell of overripe fruit. The unlit street itself was deserted save for a stray cat that darted in front of them and then disappeared. Monterre opened the door for her and then sat behind the wheel, started the engine and drove slowly down the street.

  ‘Do you know why I am here?’ Rachel asked.

  ‘I am hoping you will tell me. But I imagine it is about that business in Bordeaux.’

  ‘That is correct. Do you know why it happened? Who gave the order for it to happen?’

  Monterre turned a corner. ‘Nobody ordered it to happen, mademoiselle. It just happened.’

  ‘You are saying that Madame Burstein happened to be in Bordeaux, inside the occupied territory, where she had no business to be, armed with a pistol, on the day a new commandant arrived for the garrison, and shot him on the spur of the moment?'

  ‘No, no. She went there to kill him.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because of her husband.’

  ‘You’ll have to explain that.’

  The last of the houses fell behind, and they were proceeding along a country road behind dipped headlights. ‘It happened when Burstein went into Bordeaux.’

  ‘Why did he do that?’

  ‘I do not know. But he did, and he was identified as a Jew.’ ‘Well, of course he would be. It was a crazy thing to do. So you are saying that he was arrested.’

  ‘No. He resisted arrest and, as he was armed, he managed to kill one of the soldiers before he was overpowered.’

  ‘My God! What happened to him?’

  ‘They did not bother with a trial. They hanged him there and then, in one of the town squares.’

  ‘And you think Amalie went to avenge his death?’

  ‘I know she did this.’

  ‘And no one tried to stop her? Pierre? Liane?’

  ‘Liane was not there. She went away. I think she went to Paris. And Pierre … he is a weakling. He could not stand up to Amalie.’

  Rachel frowned. Pierre had not struck her as a weakling on their previous meetings ‘Are you telling me the truth?’

  ‘Of course I am telling the truth, mademoiselle. Why should I lie to you?’

  Rachel considered, and then looked out of the window at the blackness surrounding them. They had now been driving for about half an hour, and the village was far behind them. They had also been driving in virtually a straight line; there had been no bends and only a couple of crossroads. ‘We’re driving west,’ she said. ‘Why are we driving west?’

  ‘I am taking you to see Pierre. Is that not what you wish?’ ‘But in a few minutes we will be at the border. Are you saying that Pierre is hiding out in the occupied territory? That doesn’t make sense. Surely he and Amalie would have returned into Vichy to avoid arrest.’

  Monterre braked the van to a halt. ‘Do you wish to go to Pierre or not?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Then it is necessary to cross the border. You must get out.’ ‘Here? You mean we are going to walk the rest of the way?’ ‘No, no. But l must conceal you, beneath the vegetables. I am sorry, but this is necessary.’

  Rachel deduced that he was very nervous, but that was understandable. She got out, drew her coat more tightly about herself, and walked round to the rear of the van, where Monterre was already opening the double doors. ‘There is a space already cleared, with a blanket. Lie down and 1 will cover you up.’

  Rachel peered into the distinctly noisome darkness, sighed and put her hands on the floor of the van to mount. This was apparently what Monterre had been waiting for, as he had not been sure where her fingers were in relation to the revolver he knew she was carrying. He had also, while waiting for her to come round the vehicle, taken a sack from inside, and now he dropped this over her head and shoulders, pulling it down to her hips with an effort that knocked her off balance. As the sack was even smellier than the interior of the van, for a moment she couldn’t breathe, and found herself lying on the ground while Monterre scrabbled for her wrists. She tried desperately to get them free to push up the sack at least far enough to reach her gun, but he was far too strong for her, and again he had obviously prepared for this moment, for now he fitted a loop of thin rope over her left wrist and another over her right, and drew them together, securing them in the small of her back. Then he pulled the sack from her head.

  This was a relief, and for a moment she couldn’t speak as she gasped for air, aware that her glasses had disappeared into the night. Then she realized he was fumbling at her coat, trying to locate the revolver.

  ‘You bastard!’ she snapped. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Many things.’ He pocketed the revolver, and pushed her on to her back. Her head hit the ground with a thump. He knelt beside her and unbuttoned her coat.

  ‘What are you doingT she demanded again, determined to keep the fear out of her tone.

  ‘Many things,’ he repeated. ‘But if you are good to me, I will not hurt you.’

  ‘You … ’ She kicked, but could not get her legs up far enough to reach him.

  He spread the open coat to either side, still kneeling beside her. ‘You are from the English,’ he said. ‘The Secret Service.’ ‘Yes,’ she said, starting to pant. ‘And they have long arms.’ ‘But they have to know where to look.’ He unbuttoned her jerkin. ‘You have come to make contact with the de Gruchys.’ ‘You know that.’

  ‘Then you know where they can be found, eh?’ Carefully he opened the jerkin. The cold air got through her shirt and she began to shiver.

  ‘You know I do not. You are taking me to them.’

  ‘I do not know where they are. But I wish to know. So do my friends. So you will tell me.’

  ‘I do not know where they are. I wish to find out. Did Anatole not tell you that is why I am here?’

  ‘Anatole? I have nothing to do with Anatole.’

  ‘But didn’t he send you to me?’

  ‘I have said, I have nothing to do with Anatole. But I know who he is. What he is. When one of my friends told me that there was a strange woman in the village, working for Anatole, I knew at once it had to be an agent, so I discovered where you were living. It was very easy.’ He unbuckled her belt.

  Rachel made herself keep calm. ‘If you harm me, be sure that my friends will seek you out.’

  ‘I am not going to harm you, mademoiselle. I am doing you a favour. Because if I take you to my friends, and give you to them, you will probably never be able to have sex again. Would that not be a waste? You are an attractive woman.’ He released her buttons, his knuckles roaming up and down her groin.

  I am going to be raped, she thought. My God, / am going to be raped! She opened her mouth to scream, and then closed it again. Th
ere could not possibly be anyone within earshot. And besides, she was not some empty-headed young girl. She was a highly trained operative who, if she could get her hands free, could probably dispose of this lout in a matter of seconds. She must not panic. She must wait, and seize the first opportunity that arose. Yet the panic was there, lurking in her subconscious. She had only ever had sex with two men in her life. One was a forgotten nightclubber in that esoteric world she had known before 1939. The other was James. Oh, James!

  Monterre pulled down her trousers and knickers, and then took them right off. Rachel drew up her knees. He grasped them and pushed them flat again, then stood up to drop his own trousers. Rachel rolled on her side and swung her right leg as hard as she could, catching him on the ankle when he was off balance. He gave a shout of pain and alarm as he fell down. Rachel rolled and reached her knees, but before she could get to her feet he was back at her, seizing her shoulders to throw her flat again with a thump that left her winded. While she gasped for breath, he kicked off his trousers and came at her again. Now she could take a deep breath, and as he straddled her she brought up her knees as hard as she could.

  Monterre uttered a scream and fell away from her, clutching his genitals. Once more Rachel rolled the other way and again reached her knees. This time she actually got to her feet and took a few steps, away from the van, before he recovered. Then he came at her again, but no longer with rape in mind.

  ‘Bitch!’ he snarled, punching her in the back so hard she once more lost her breath. ‘Bitch!’ Two more punches brought her back to her knees, and he began kicking her. Now she did scream, in agony, and fell down, trying to roll away from him, but he kicked her again several times, and she subsided into moans, tears dribbling down her cheeks.

  She seriously thought he was going to beat her to death, but he suddenly stopped, and grasped her shoulders to drag her up and across to the van, bundling her in through the open rear doors. She fell on to a relatively soft cushion of fruit and vegetables and braced herself for another assault, but he merely slammed the doors, then returned to the front, got in, and started the engine. For a few minutes Rachel couldn’t think. Her head was swinging, and her body was aching. She wasn’t sure she hadn’t broken a bone, although the pain was dull rather than sharp. But her brain was in an even greater turmoil. Monterre had fought beside her in the Massif Central. Yet clearly there had been a split in the ranks of the guerrillas, and she had fallen into the middle. She should have insisted upon the pair of them visiting the bakery for confirmation of his position. But his apparent desire to operate in the dark had been entirely plausible. And now, he was taking her to his ‘friends’ who, from the way he had treated her, were hardly likely to be her friends.

  What to do? Think, and be patient, she reminded herself. Until she could … She almost despaired, because now her ability to think was being hampered by the cold, which, as she was naked from her hips to her boots, was making her shiver and was seeping upwards into the rest of her body. She tried rolling to and fro, and managed to turn over and sit up, but now she was embedded in the soft mass around her. She simply had to get her hands free, but work them as she might, she didn’t seem to be making any progress.

  The van stopped, so suddenly that she fell over again, and now there were lights outside. She made herself lie still to listen, and she heard a voice saying, in French, but with a foreign accent, ‘Papers’. Oh, my God, she thought, we’re at the border. But could that help her? Did she dare declare her identity, as a French schoolteacher, kidnapped for the purpose of rape? But it was her only hope. Her bag, with her false identity, was still in the front of the van, as far as she knew.

  She listened to Monterre. ‘You know me, Sergeant. I am Monterre.’

  ‘I know you,’ the sergeant replied. Rachel drew a deep breath, but the sergeant was still speaking. ‘And what have you got in there today?’

  ‘Something very special.’ His door opened and closed. ‘Come and have a look.’

  Rachel’s brain seemed to freeze with the rest of her. But before she could decide what to do, the doors were opened and a bright flashlight was shone into the interior. ‘What the shit … ?’ the sergeant demanded.

  ‘She is a present for Colonel Hoeppner,’ Monterre said proudly. ‘A British agent, come to contact the de Gruchys. She knows where they are.’

  PART TWO

  Friends and Enemies

  May we never want a friend in need.

  - Charles Dickens.

  Chapter Four

  Desperation

  Eva, a plumply handsome young woman who wore her yellow hair in a ponytail, stood in the doorway of the office. ‘Sergeant Globus wishes to see you, sir. He has the man Monterre with him.’

  Franz sighed. He disliked Communists, and agreed with the Fiihrer that they should be locked up. He also disliked traitors, no matter which side they betrayed. Most of all, he disliked Jacques Monterre. But the man was his only real hope of finding Amalie de Gruchy — and thus salvaging his own career — and he had proved his worth as an informer more than once already. ‘Bring them in,’ he said.

  Eva stood to attention. ‘The colonel will see you now.’ Globus entered and stood to attention. ‘Heil Hitler!’

  Franz nodded and looked at Monterre, who was attempting to follow the sergeant’s example, but sloppily. ‘Heil Hitler!’ ‘You have something for me?’

  ‘Someone, Herr Colonel,’ Globus said enthusiastically. Franz frowned while his heart began to pound with a mixture of anticipation and distaste. He did not actually want Amalie de Gruchy to be captured alive, with all the horror that would necessarily follow, and which he would be required to supervise. Having saved her once from the Gestapo, he felt an almost proprietary interest in her. If she had to die — and sadly, after shooting Kessler, she did have to die — he wanted it to be in a shoot-out, shouting defiance to the last, rather than standing on a scaffold before a salacious crowd, her body already ruined by long hours in a Gestapo torture chamber. ‘You have captured Amalie de Gruchy?’ he asked.

  ‘No, Herr Colonel. But we have captured someone who will lead us to her. I captured her,’ Monterre said proudly.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘An English spy.’

  ‘You have captured an English spy? Here in Bordeaux? How do you know he is a spy?’

  ‘It is a she, a woman who was with the guerrillas in the Massif Central when they were raided. I saw her there. I spoke with her. She escaped and returned to England, but now she is back, seeking to reopen contact with the de Gruchys.’

  Franz studied him. Monterre had only been in his pay, one might say, for just over a month. He had appeared out of the blue, claiming to have been a member of the de Gruchy Group. Franz’s first reaction had been to hang him out of hand, but what he had had to say correlated with other information he had been given, and he had been able to pinpoint the whereabouts of one of the gang — the Jew, Burstein.

  The capture and execution of Burstein, known to be a prominent member of the de Gruchy gang, had been a feather in his cap, even if he knew it must have led directly to the assassination of Kessler by Burstein’s wife. In betraying Burstein, Monterre had clamed to have quarrelled with the de Gruchys, and broken with them, and thus had no knowledge of Kessler’s murder. That had also made a certain amount of sense. But some of his other claims had been absurd, such as that Liane de Gruchy had also escaped the famous shoot-out. That was not credible, in view of the eyewitness accounts of her death. But suppose it were true? Because the evidence was largely provided by the American woman, someone about whom Franz had mixed feelings.

  He had not reported Monterre’s claim to Berlin. Because Liane was someone else he did not wish to see captured and tortured? Even more than Amalie, who he had only ever actually met once, Liane was imprinted on his consciousness. He had, as he had confessed to Kessler, spent five hours sitting beside her in the back of his car, with her pistol pressed into his ribs. She had leaned against him, made him put his ar
m round her shoulders, so that when they had stopped at the border checkpoint they had appeared to be enjoying each other’s company. He could remember the feel of her, the scent of her, the aura that she exuded. The evidence that she could kill with dispassionate efficiency was overwhelming, but again as he had told Kessler, once they were across the border it would have been the simplest thing in the world, and certainly the most sensible, to shoot him and his driver before making off with his car. Instead she had turned them loose to walk back to Bordeaux.

  Everyone supposed that she had been interested only in the propaganda coup of humiliating a German officer. But if that had been her intention, and if she had survived the Massif Central massacre, she had not yet attempted to capitalize on her achievement, and she remained the most compelling woman he had ever met.

  But perhaps this British agent might be able to unlock the mystery of what had actually happened in that corpse-strewn cavern. ‘I will see this woman,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, Herr Colonel.’ Globus hurried from the room.

  Franz looked at Monterre. ‘Was there something else?’

  ‘Well, Herr Colonel … She is my prisoner.’

  ‘Who you have now turned over to the Wehrmacht. I congratulate you. If she gives us the information we need, and we take Amalie de Gruchy, I may even reward you. Now you may get back to your vegetables.’

  Monterre stood on one leg and then the other. ‘She resisted arrest.’

  ‘You mean she is hurt.’

  ‘No, no. I do not think so. But … I had to wrestle with her. She will claim that I attempted to rape her.’

  Franz considered him for several seconds, then asked, ‘Did you rape her?’

  ‘No, no, Herr Colonel. I am not that sort of man. But as I say, I was trying to restrain her, to disarm her.’

  ‘She had a weapon?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Herr Colonel. She had a revolver, and threatened to shoot me. So I had to tackle her.'

  ‘Which was very brave of you,’ Franz agreed drily. ‘Thank you, Monterre. I will bear what you have said in mind.’