LIMOUX
Raoul Pelletier ran his hands over his chin, uncomfortable in the heat. He’d not shaved since leaving Carcassonne because the beard and moustache disguised the shape of his face. It wasn’t much, but it was the best he could do, especially since he’d seen a poster asking for information, with a huge reward being offered. He’d been expecting it for weeks, was surprised that it was the first he’d seen. Although he looked different after three weeks of living rough, if someone put their mind to it, he’d be recognised. So far as he knew, at least there hadn’t been anything on the wireless since the end of July.
Raoul was sitting in the café by Les Halles in Limoux, with a clear view of the front door of the Hôtel Moderne et Pigeon. Local résistants used the hotel as a safe house and he had been told there was someone who might give him a ride south. The man he was looking out for was Spanish, a comrade of Ramón with whom he’d stayed in Roullens three weeks ago.
He had bought the morning edition of La Dépêche. It was a Pétainist publication, but it served his purpose. He flicked through the paper, glancing up at the door to the hotel, which remained stubbornly closed. As he looked back down, his attention was drawn by a STOP PRESS item on the inside back page.
TRAGIC CLIMBING ACCIDENT
It is with great regret that we report that the body of a local man, identified as Monsieur Antoine Déjean – originally of Tarascon – has been found in a gully to the north of the village of Larnat, in Ariège.
Raoul turned cold. From the moment he’d found Sandrine clutching Antoine’s necklace at the river, he had expected this. But the black and white reality of it still hit him.
Monsieur Déjean’s body was discovered by a poacher, who alerted the appropriate authorities. Retired Inspecteur Pujol, formerly of the gendarmerie in Foix, hypothesised that the young man had lost his footing and fallen. The extent of his injuries were such that it appeared he had died instantly some weeks previously. When asked if Monsieur Déjean might have been investigating the caves for some illegal purpose, Inspecteur Pujol replied in the negative. ‘Although it is the case that Lombrives caves and other adjacent sites have become the unfortunate focus for unscrupulous treasure-hunters and cultists, there is no evidence to suggest that Monsieur Déjean was involved with any such group.’
Raoul glanced up again. No one was going in or out of the hotel. He continued reading.
Monsieur Déjean, who was unmarried, was a resident of Carcassonne and worked for Artozouls, the hunting and fishing suppliers. The funeral will be held at ten o’clock on Wednesday 19 August at the Église de la Daurade, Tarascon. No flowers by request.
In his pocket, Raoul’s fingers tightened around the handkerchief containing the tiny bottle he’d retrieved from Antoine’s apartment. It had become an habitual action on his part, a talisman almost.
At last, he heard the door of the hotel open and a dark-haired man, matching the description of the man he was waiting for, came out. Raoul dropped the newspaper on the table, quickly crossed the street and fell into step beside him.
‘Le temps est bouché à l’horizon.’
The slightest nod, to indicate that the password had been heard and accepted.
‘Where do you need to go, compañero?’ the Spaniard replied, without breaking his stride.
‘Banyuls,’ Raoul began to say, then he stopped. The newspaper article changed things. He was now convinced that Leo Coursan – with Laval’s help – was responsible for Antoine’s abduction and murder. If he was right, Sandrine was in danger. His intention had been to stay as far away from her as possible, not to drag her into his situation. But now he realised he couldn’t leave.
‘On second thoughts, Coustaussa,’ he said.
‘I can take you to Couiza. Two kilometres from there?’
‘Sí gracias.’
The man nodded. ‘Red van at end of alley. BONFILS on the side. We leave in fifteen minutes.’
CARCASSONNE
‘Did you know about this, Laval?’ said Authié, pushing the copy of La Dépêche towards him.
‘I’ve seen it, sir.’
‘What the hell’s Bauer playing at? How could he be so incompetent as to dispose of the body where it would be found so soon?’
‘There have been storms in the Haute Vallée, perhaps that caused a mud slide. Disturbed the grave.’
Authié realised it was close to where de l’Oradore’s excavation had been three years previously. Was that deliberate or another unfortunate coincidence?
‘What’s Bauer got to say about it?’ he demanded.
‘I have not spoken to him,’ Laval said in a level voice.
Authié stared at his deputy, hearing something in his tone, then dropped his eyes back to the newspaper.
‘Who’s this Inspector Pujol?’
‘A retired local policeman.’
‘One of ours?’
Laval shook his head. ‘The opposite, sir. Sympathies are with the partisans.’
‘Why was he called rather than a serving officer?’
‘The locals trust him. They don’t like the authorities. A place like Tarascon, people stick to their own kind.’
‘Like the Middle Ages. It’s ridiculous,’ Authié snapped. He looked back at the article. ‘According to this, the death’s being treated as a climbing accident. Do people believe that?’
‘From what little I’ve been able to gather. Do you want me to go back to Tarascon, sir?’
Authié considered. ‘On balance, it’s a good idea,’ he said eventually. ‘I’ll put someone else on surveillance of the Vidal house for the time being. What’s happening there?’
‘It continues the same, sir. The tall woman, Suzanne Peyre, is often there. Mademoiselle Vidal spends most of her time at the Croix-Rouge in rue de Verdun, then returns home in the evenings. No sign of the younger girl or the housekeeper.’
‘Lucie Ménard?’
‘I haven’t seen her at all.’
Authié glanced again at the paper. ‘Go to Tarascon today, Laval. Report back as soon as you can. I intend to go myself on Wednesday, but I want information before that.’
‘Wednesday?’
‘The funeral,’ he said impatiently. ‘It will be a good opportunity to take the measure of things for myself.’ He paused again, then raised his eyes and looked at Laval standing on the other side of the desk. ‘As regards Bauer, I think the arrangement has run its course. Not until after Wednesday, but then I need you to act. You understand me?’
Laval met his gaze. ‘Yes, sir.’
COUIZA
The Tramontana was stirring up the dust outside the railway station when Raoul walked into Couiza. He couldn’t see any police checking papers, but even so he didn’t want to risk going into the station to ask for directions to Coustaussa. But road signs had been taken down in 1939, and he didn’t want to waste his time striking out in the wrong direction. He noticed the door to the tabac on the far side of the square was open.
There was a man in front of him complaining about the length of the queues in the post office. He turned, half knocked into Raoul, then frowned. He exchanged a look with the tobacconist, looked hard at Raoul, then left quickly. Raoul told himself not to read anything into it, it was just one of those things. Small towns like this, all strangers were treated with suspicion.
‘Do you have tobacco to buy?’ he said. ‘Cigarettes?’
‘Rations only.’
‘Not for cash?’
The tobacconist looked at him. ‘I can’t help.’
Raoul shrugged. ‘A box of matches anyway,’ he said, handing over a note. ‘And if you could point me in the direction of Coustaussa.’
The tobacconist looked at him. ‘New around here?’
‘Passing through.’
He came out from behind his counter. ‘Right out of the door. Long road with trees. You’ll see Coustaussa on the hill, left-hand side.’
The tobacconist stood in the doorway, watching him go. Raoul felt his eyes on the back of his neck. He looked back in time to see the man turn the sign on the door to CLOSED, leave the tabac and cross the square in the opposite direction.
Already Raoul regretted mentioning Coustaussa, but he told himself he was making something out of nothing. He found an unmade path running parallel to the main road running east. Bicycle tracks suggested someone had taken the same route earlier, a single line snaking up towards the village. He hadn’t seen a single patrol, but he’d be less visible away in this quiet neighbourhood. Small houses with neat back gardens, neither quite in the town nor properly in the countryside.
Raoul tried to bring Sandrine’s face to mind. She’d been his constant companion over the past three weeks, snapshots of their brief time together carried in his head like treasured photographs in an album. But today, it didn’t work. His memories were less strong than the twist of fear in his stomach. What if Coursan had already tracked Sandrine down in Carcassonne? His fault. What if she was in Coustaussa, but was horrified to see him? She’d had three weeks to regret the invitation, more than three weeks when anything might have happened.
In the distance, Raoul heard the thrum of an engine. His reactions sharpened. A car driving in the same direction he was walking. Thoughts about the future gave way to the needs of the present. He glanced around, but there was nowhere obvious to hide. Gardens, the open track, few trees for cover. Then he noticed, a little way ahead, a small, squat building, an electricity substation.
He sped up, covering the last few metres quickly, and stepped into the shadow of the building, moments before a police car appeared on the track behind him. Sending gravel skidding, the tyres crunching on the rough surface, disappearing in a cloud of dust on the road leading up to Coustaussa. Raoul leant back against the whitewashed wall, his heart thudding in his chest, remembering the sharp eyes of the customer in the tabac and the glance he’d exchanged with the owner. He’d no way of knowing whether they’d recognised him or simply reported him because he was a stranger in a town that did not welcome outsiders. He looked down at his clothes, dirty from the road, remembered his unshaven, sun-worn face.
Should he go on? The police car was heading in the same direction. Was he a coward to contemplate turning back or simply being prudent?
He looked back at the houses on the outskirts of Couiza, trying to decide what to do. Then he turned and looked along the empty road. There was a slight trace of dust still hanging in the air, whipped up by the tyres. The memory of sitting side by side in the garden of the rue du Palais came back to him. How when he’d described standing on the jetty in Banyuls, being too much of a coward to jump, Sandrine had said she thought it took more courage to go on than to give up.
He carried on walking.
COUSTAUSSA
‘How do you feel now?’ Sandrine said, joining Monsieur Baillard and Marieta on the terrace.
‘I would feel better if everyone stopped fussing,’ Marieta said, though she didn’t look like she really minded.
‘Doctor’s orders,’ Sandrine smiled. ‘We’re not going to let you lift a finger.’
‘Doctors, what do they know?’ she said gruffly. ‘Now, did you speak to Madomaisèla Marianne?’
The smile slipped from Sandrine’s face. ‘No, as a matter of fact. No one there. I’ll go back later. She doesn’t even know what happened to you and . . .’ She stopped. ‘I’d like to be sure everything’s all right.’
‘And why wouldn’t it be?’ Marieta said sharply.
‘No reason. It’s just odd that there wasn’t anyone there again, that’s all.’ She looked around. ‘Where’s Liesl?’
‘She went to call on Madame Rousset,’ Baillard replied. ‘Her son – Yves, is it? – came for her.’
Sandrine grinned. ‘Did he indeed?’
She put her panier down on the table. ‘I got everything you asked for, Monsieur Baillard. And this package they had put by for you in the bookshop, as you’d asked.’ She took a parcel wrapped in brown paper from the basket. ‘There was more in the shops than I’d expected. It’s not like that in Carcassonne.’
Baillard slit the string with a knife and opened the package, then nodded with satisfaction.
‘Yes, this will do.’
‘What is it?’
‘It is a stock of paper they were keeping for me. Nowhere near old enough, of course but, with modification, I think it will pass.’
‘The bookshop owner said she had been keeping it for you for some time, but how is that—’
‘It was kind of her to remember,’ Baillard said, forestalling Sandrine’s question. He put his hand on Marieta’s shoulder. ‘Do you need anything, amica, otherwise, if you will beg our patience, Madomaisèla Sandrine and I have things to discuss.’
‘Go, go,’ she smiled, making a shooing motion with her hands. ‘I will be quite all right.’
Sandrine picked up her basket and she and Baillard carried everything into the house and unpacked it. As well as provisions and several sheets of woven cream paper, there was a heavy bottle of sirop, a bottle of Indian ink and a horsehair brush.
‘So do you know who murdered Antoine, Monsieur Baillard?’
‘No, not for certain,’ he said. ‘Over the past twenty years or so there has been a great deal of activity in the area around the caves of Lombrives and the Pic de Vicdessos. All such licences were rescinded when war was declared but, once the Armistice was signed, several expeditions returned. A French team funded by the head of an old Chartres family – a man called de l’Oradore – among them. But Antoine’s father said the man asking after his son was German, so . . .’ He shrugged.
‘Surely there can’t be German teams allowed here now?’
‘Not officially, of course, but unofficially, I think it’s probable,’ Baillard replied. ‘The question is whether they are collaborating with one another or working independently.’ He thought for a moment. ‘It is common knowledge that the Ahnenerbe are in the region.’
‘What’s the Ahnenerbe?’
Baillard’s face hardened. ‘An organisation dedicated to finding evidence validating Nazi beliefs of an Aryan race. To that end they have archaeologists all over the world searching for artefacts, for religious texts.’
He broke off and Sandrine saw his amber eyes darken, as if some other, more powerful story had claimed his attention. Then he waved his hand, chasing away his memories.
‘Antoine was friends with a young German, Otto Rahn, who lived at Montségur for some time. A young man in search of meaning. Rahn believed he had found it here, in the Pays d’Oc. Flattered into joining the SS, he was coerced into feeding information back to Berlin.’ The thought lines furrowed deeper on his forehead. ‘It is my intention to do the same, except of course the information we will provide will be false.’
Sandrine looked at the antique paper, then suddenly understood Baillard’s odd shopping list.
‘You’re going to create a forgery,’ she said.
He smiled, clearly pleased she had worked it out so quickly.
‘And put out that it’s been found in order to flush out Antoine’s killers . . .’ She paused. ‘Or . . . to leave you free to search unhindered for the real Codex? Is that it?’
He nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘So you do believe it survived,’ she murmured. ‘I wasn’t certain if you did.’
Sandrine looked down at the materials on the table. ‘But can you really make something convincing enough to persuade an expert?’
‘I think I can do well enough for our immediate purposes. Why Antoine’s body has been found now, whether it was deliberate or unintended, I do not know. However, I think matters will accelerate because of it. I have a contact in Toulouse who will help, a leading French expert on ancient manuscripts and documents in the Languedoc. He will verify its authenticity.’
‘But if you’re right, and it’s Nazi money behind this – or even a mixture of French and German – surely they’ll send it to their own experts? However cleverly you produce the forgery, it’s obviously not parchment or papyrus, or whatever the real Codex was made of.’
‘Eventually they will send it to the Ahnenerbe, yes. But they will not wish to run the risk of drawing Reichsführer Himmler’s attention to it until they are completely certain it is genuine.’
Sandrine thought for a moment, but since she realised she would go along with whatever plan Monsieur Baillard put in place anyway, she then sat down and folded her arms on the table.
‘What do you need me to do?’
Baillard stared at her. ‘This is not a game, madomaisèla,’ he said sternly. ‘You cannot be under any illusions. If you become involved with this deception, you put yourself in danger. You understand this?’
Sandrine thought of Antoine’s desperate face, the weight of his body as she dragged him to the riverbank, the words he had fought so hard to say.
‘I’m already involved, Monsieur Baillard,’ she said quietly. ‘So, tell me what I can do.’
She saw his eyes soften.
‘What?’ she said quickly. ‘What is it?’
He smiled. ‘Nothing, filha. It is merely that you remind me of someone.’
‘Léonie, yes,’ Sandrine said. ‘Marieta mentioned her yesterday. She thought I was her, I think.’
Baillard shook his head. ‘I wasn’t thinking of Léonie.’
‘Then who?’
For an instant, she thought he hadn’t heard. He sat so still, his hands resting flat on the table, not a muscle moving. Then he gave a long and weary sigh.
‘Alaïs,’ he said finally. ‘Her name was Alaïs.’