Raoul watched César enter the building next to the Café Lagarde in the rue de l’Aigle d’Or. He waited a couple of seconds, then followed and gave the password.
‘Per lo Miègjorn.’ For the Midi.
He was admitted into a dark hallway, where César was waiting for him.
‘Any trouble?’
Raoul shook his head. ‘Nothing. You?’
‘All quiet.’
They went up the narrow stairs in single file, towards an apartment on the first floor. Voices were muffled, just audible. César knocked – four slow raps – then opened the door.
Raoul followed him in and found himself in a dingy kitchen. The air was thick with tobacco smoke, stale food and blocked drains.
‘Sanchez,’ said the man leaning over a map on the table. ‘We were about to give up on you.’
César shrugged. ‘You were the one who wanted photographs on the flyers, Coursan.’
Raoul glanced at César, surprised by his tone, but his face gave nothing away.
‘You must be Pelletier,’ Coursan said, offering his hand. ‘And this is Robert Bonnet, and his brother Gaston.’
Raoul nodded at the two men sitting at the square table in the middle of the room. Robert was large and amiable-looking, with a handlebar moustache. Gaston was short, with mean, small eyes. The glass ashtray between them was filled with spent matches and cigarette papers. An empty jug of water and a half-full bottle of Pastis stood on the counter behind them.
Raoul looked at Coursan, trying to get the measure of the man. He was quite short, no more than five foot seven or eight, but with a commanding physical presence all the same. Clear eyes, balanced features, with five or six days’ stubble and a moustache. He wore the same ordinary, nondescript blue trousers and open-necked shirt as the rest of them, though there was something of the bureaucrat about him.
Raoul didn’t know where Coursan had served during the war, or what he’d done since the defeat. All he knew was that he’d set up this particular unit of résistants. One of the newest of the local groups, according to César, formed partly in reaction to the collaborationist organisations that were operating openly in Carcassonne: the PPF, the SOL, Collaboration, the Jeunes Doriotistes and the LVF were the biggest, but there were others.
‘What have we missed?’ said César, with the same spike of belligerence.
Raoul couldn’t tell whether Coursan was ignoring the edge in César’s voice, or was too preoccupied to notice it. Either way, his expression gave nothing away.
‘I’ve been running through the plans for tomorrow,’ he said.
‘Let’s get on with it then, shall we?’
Now Raoul did see a flash of anger in Coursan’s eyes, but his voice remained neutral.
‘We’ll be stationed here,’ he said, pointing at the plan of the town, ‘here and here. Our comrades from “24 Février” will be coming from the opposite direction, from boulevard Marcou.’ He tapped the map. ‘According to the wireless, our colleagues from “Libération” will base themselves by the Grand Café du Nord.’ He looked at César. ‘Is everything all right with the leaflets?’
‘Yes.’
Coursan’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are they printed?’
‘They will be,’ he said curtly.
Coursan held César’s gaze, but didn’t question him further.
‘The word is,’ he continued, ‘that the SOL intends to disrupt the demonstration. Drafting in reinforcements from Narbonne and Limoux. Our job is to make sure they don’t.’
‘How many are we expecting?’ Raoul asked.
‘No way of knowing.’
‘There were thousands at that demonstration in Place Davilla,’ Robert said, his bushy moustache wagging up and down as he talked. ‘Day of National Mourning, that’s what they called it.’
Raoul nodded. ‘But that was two years ago. Demonstrations weren’t illegal then.’
‘True. People are more scared now. Too scared to stand up and be counted these days.’
Raoul turned to Coursan. ‘The police must be aware something’s planned. Isn’t it strange they’re not trying to stop it?’
‘Getting cold feet, Pelletier?’ said Gaston.
‘Just assessing the situation.’
‘Not having second thoughts?’
‘Not at all,’ Raoul said quickly. ‘I’m just saying that if the authorities think they have more to gain by letting it go ahead than by preventing it, should we be worried?’
Gaston poured himself another drink, slopping Pastis over the table. ‘Don’t know what—’
Coursan held up his hand. ‘Let Pelletier finish.’
‘They want to prove that Carcassonne isn’t Paris,’ he said, warming to his theme. ‘But it’s also a good way to get us all in one place. The leaders of Resistance groups, partisans, together at the same time.’
‘You think there’ll be arrests?’ Robert said.
Raoul was amazed he was even asking. He glanced at César to gauge his reaction, but his friend’s hands were laced behind his neck and he was staring up at the ceiling.
‘I’m certain there will be trouble,’ Coursan said, ‘but it’s a risk we have to take. Does anyone disagree?’
No one spoke.
Coursan returned his attention to the map. Raoul loosened his collar. It was very hot, airless. In the corner, the tap continued to drip, drip. Every now and again the pipes gurgled, as if someone was running a bath elsewhere in the building, then the plumbing sighed and settled down again.
‘Where’s Antoine?’ Robert said. ‘Isn’t he coming?’
Raoul felt a kick in his stomach. Immediately, his hand went to his pocket, found the cold metal.
‘Another one with cold feet,’ Gaston was saying.
César glared at him. ‘He’ll be here.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Raoul said, not sure what he was actually apologising for. He put the chain on the table. ‘I don’t know if it’s important, but I found this. I think it’s Antoine’s.’
Straight away, there was a shift in the atmosphere. A sharpening of attention. César leant forward and snatched up the silver necklace.
‘Where did you get it?’ he demanded.
‘Down by the river, this morning. Near Païchérou.’
‘Did you see Antoine there?’
‘No. I’d have said if I had.’
Raoul was aware of Coursan’s eyes fixed on him. ‘Something the size of this and you just happened to notice it, Pelletier?’ he said lightly.
‘No,’ he said, then stopped, wondering how to explain. ‘That’s to say, there was a girl . . .’
Gaston bayed with laughter.
Raoul ignored him. ‘There was a girl – don’t know who she was – had got into trouble. Come off her bike, tipped forward into the water.’ He shrugged. ‘She was holding the chain.’
‘And what time did you say this was?’ Coursan asked.
‘Ten o’clock, give or take.’
‘So you saw the necklace. Took it.’ He paused. ‘Why was that?’
‘I don’t know really,’ Raoul replied, feeling wrong-footed. ‘I suppose, because it looked like Antoine’s.’ He shrugged. ‘I didn’t really think about it.’
‘Did the girl explain why she had it?’
‘She was unconscious. Then I heard a car, and since she was all right – and obviously I didn’t want to get caught up in anything – I left.’
‘A real chevalier,’ muttered Gaston. ‘Gallant.’
‘You’d have done the same, Bonnet,’ Raoul said. ‘Common sense.’
Gaston swallowed a belch, then poured himself another drink. Robert frowned at his brother and sat back heavily in his creaking chair.
‘You’re sure the girl didn’t say anything?’ Coursan said. His voice was casual, though Raoul sensed the keen interest behind his words.
‘Not really, nothing that made sense. Nothing about Antoine.’ He felt the tension tighten another notch. He looked at everyone’s faces, seeing nothing unusual, nothing different in any expression, but he was regretting bringing it up all the same. ‘Look, I don’t know where Antoine is, but I’m sure the girl just happened to be there. Bad luck, good luck, however you want to look at it. She saw the chain, picked it up, end of story.’
‘Except for the fact the girl was half drowned,’ said César. ‘Except for the fact Antoine should be here, and isn’t.’ He turned on Coursan. ‘And Laval isn’t here either, come to that? Where is he, Coursan?’
‘He’ll be here.’
Downstairs, the door to the street slammed. Everybody stopped talking, listening to the footsteps coming up the stairs. The door swung open. Raoul sighed, realising he’d been holding his breath.
It wasn’t Antoine.
‘Christ, Laval,’ muttered Gaston. ‘Give us all a heart attack.’
Raoul hadn’t previously met Coursan’s second-in-command, Sylvère Laval, though he recognised him from César’s description. He had the look of a musician, black trousers and shirt, hair slicked back. His eyes were sharp with smoke and drink and late nights. Like Coursan, he had five or six days’ growth on his chin.
Laval nodded at Coursan, then sat down beside Gaston.
‘We have – might have – a problem,’ Coursan said. ‘Déjean’s not shown up and Pelletier has been telling us how he fished a girl out of the river earlier this morning. She was holding Déjean’s chain.’
Raoul saw a look pass between the two men. Again he glanced at César, but he was still examining the necklace and didn’t meet his eye.
‘Why was Pelletier at the river?’ Laval asked.
‘On my way here,’ Raoul replied, irritated to be talked about as if he wasn’t in the room.
César stood up. ‘I’m going to check Antoine’s flat, see if he’s there.’
‘Sit down, Sanchez,’ Coursan said mildly.
‘He’s probably in bed nursing a hangover,’ said Gaston.
‘He’s not a drinker.’
‘Everyone’s a drinker,’ said Gaston, swallowing another belch.
‘I’m not sitting here doing nothing,’ César said, ‘when Antoine might be in trouble.’
‘Sit down,’ Coursan repeated.
He didn’t raise his voice, but the authority in it was clear all the same. To Raoul’s surprise, César did what he was told. Robert poured a glass of Pastis and pushed it across the table to him. César added water and downed it in one.
‘Did the girl say anything?’ Laval asked Coursan.
‘As I said,’ Raoul replied, ‘she was unconscious. She didn’t do or say anything.’
Laval was looking at Raoul, but still addressing himself to Coursan.
‘What do you want to do?’
Coursan drummed his fingers on the table for a moment. ‘If Antoine’s been arrested, we need to know. It could affect things tomorrow. César, why not check his apartment? If he’s there, leave a message in the usual way, behind the bar in the café downstairs.’
‘And if not?’
‘Our priority is tomorrow.’
‘Right,’ said Gaston, giving a mock salute.
‘Is everyone clear about what they’re doing?’
Raoul and Robert nodded. César didn’t respond.
‘Laval?’
‘Yes.’
‘In which case,’ Coursan continued, ‘meet at the Café Saillan at eight tomorrow morning.’ He looked at César. ‘You’ll bring the leaflets there?’
César still didn’t answer.
‘Sanchez?’ snapped Laval.
César stared at him, then gave a sharp nod and stood up.
‘I always deliver what I promise.’ He swept his tobacco and matches from the table and walked out of the room.
Raoul looked at Coursan, then at Laval, but their faces gave nothing away. Gaston and Robert were already getting up.
‘Good luck tomorrow, gentlemen,’ Coursan said mildly. ‘A word before you go, Laval.’
Raoul followed the Bonnets out. On the landing, he paused just long enough to hear Coursan’s voice.
‘What the hell happened?’
The door was slammed shut. Raoul pressed his ear against the wood, but couldn’t hear anything other than muffled voices. After a moment or two, he followed the others down the stairs and out into the street.
The rue de l’Aigle d’Or was crowded now. Women queuing, women shopping, talking. Three little girls were playing hopscotch on a chalk pattern drawn on the pavement, and a gaggle of teenage boys, all spots and hungry eyes, were admiring a silver motorbike parked outside the café.
Raoul lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the sun, then saw César was waiting for him at the junction with the rue du Port.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I meant to tell you about the chain before the meeting. It’s why I came to the print shop, but then I saw the photographs and it went out of my mind.’ Raoul took a breath. ‘It might not even be his,’ he continued, still feeling the need to apologise. ‘There must be hundreds like it in Carcassonne.’
‘It is his,’ César said. ‘Antoine scraped his initials on the catch with his knife. I checked. They were there.’
For a moment, both men were silent. The white smoke from their cigarettes spiralled up into the hot lunchtime air.
‘No reason to think he’s been arrested,’ Raoul commented.
César paused, then sighed. ‘Last week he told me he was going to Tarascon for a few days, but he should have been back by now.’
‘Why Tarascon?’
‘His parents live there, but . . .’
‘That’s all he said?’
César shrugged. ‘You know how it is.’
Raoul nodded. Tell nobody anything. Trust no one, not even closest friends and family. What they didn’t know, they couldn’t speak of.
‘But that chain of his,’ César continued quietly, ‘I never saw him without it on.’
Raoul glanced at him, trying to work out what was going on in César’s head. He’d been in an odd mood from the beginning of the meeting, even before he knew Antoine was missing. Might be missing.
‘Do you want me to come with you to the apartment?’
César tossed the stub of his cigarette to the pavement and ground it under his heel, then shook his head. ‘That’s why I waited. It’s getting on for lunchtime. I thought if you go to the flat, that leaves me free to try the bars, the café in the rue du Port where Antoine usually goes. I know his friends. They’ll talk to me.’
‘Fine. Where’s he live?’
‘Building on the corner of rue Emile Zola and the allée d’Iéna. First floor.’
‘All right.’
‘I’ll be in the Café des Deux Gares about nine, if you find anything out. If you don’t, in the Saillan tomorrow.’
‘You think you’re being watched?’
He shrugged again. ‘Not worth taking the risk.’
César started to move off. Raoul put his hand out to stop him.
‘Is everything all right?’ he asked. ‘Aside from this business with Antoine.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean,’ Raoul said steadily. ‘You’re on edge. Then, in the meeting, there seemed to be something going on between you and Coursan.’
He said nothing.
‘César?’
Sanchez hesitated. ‘I don’t like the way he puts himself above us.’
Raoul frowned. ‘Coursan set the group up, it’s natural he takes charge. You told me he was a patriot, working to preserve the traditions and alliances of the Languedoc. The Occitan spirit of tolerance, that’s how you put it. You certainly thought enough of him to recruit me. And Antoine.’
‘Things change,’ César said brusquely.
‘What kind of things, that’s what I’m asking.’
‘Nothing worth mentioning.’
Raoul bit back his impatience. ‘Well, how do you know Coursan? You must have known something about him to join the unit in the first place.’
‘By reputation. People spoke highly of him. Acquitted himself well in the war. Did a lot with the early Resistance in Toulouse.’
‘But you’d never met him in person?’
‘No.’
Raoul thought for a moment. ‘What does he do for a living?’
‘Not sure.’
‘César, if there’s a problem, if you’re having doubts – something specific – you’ve got to tell me.’
‘Let’s just say he’s not the man I thought he was.’
‘That’s not good enough.’
‘All right. I’ve started to ask myself what’s in it for Coursan. What does he really want?’
‘Same as us presumably, to fight the Occupation. Defeat Vichy.’
‘I’m not so sure.’
‘What then, money? Is that what you think?’
Sanchez didn’t answer.
‘César?’ he prompted again.
‘All I’m saying is the man I heard so much about and the man I see in front of me don’t match up.’
Suddenly, the antagonism seemed to go out of César and his mood changed. He leaned over and rested his hand on Raoul’s shoulder.
‘Look, forget I said anything. Coursan and I don’t see eye to eye, so what?’ He shrugged. ‘After tomorrow, it won’t matter. It’s Antoine we’ve got to worry about.’ Then, before Raoul could ask any more questions, he turned and was walking away into the crowds in Place Carnot.
Raoul stood and watched him go, confused by the whole conversation. He thought back to the grievances and conflicts he’d known in groups he’d been involved with in the past. Tempers were always frayed, worse the night before a mission or when they were about to take a new group of refugees across the mountains. Was that César’s problem? Just nerves about tomorrow’s action, fuelled by his concerns for Antoine, or something more?
Still mulling things over in his mind, he headed towards the allée d’Iéna. The fact César no longer liked Coursan wasn’t a problem. No one chose one’s comrades on the basis of liking or disliking. Raoul himself hadn’t liked everyone in the Banyuls network by any means. But he had trusted them. That was essential.
He cast his mind back to what his brother had written about Sanchez. That he was hot-headed, liable to fly off the handle and to bear a grudge. Something of a lone wolf. But also that his instincts were sound. That he was a good judge of character.
‘Per lo Miègjorn,’ Raoul muttered.
Brave words, fighting words. Spoken by the medieval hero of the Cité, Raymond-Roger Trencavel, to rally the men of the Midi against the northern crusaders in 1209. When Raoul had given the password earlier, it had sounded like a call to arms.
But now? Now, he wasn’t so sure.