‘Let me do it,’ Sandrine repeated, taking the envelope from Marieta’s hands.
The housekeeper was standing in the open door wearing her hat and outdoor shoes. Her housecoat was hanging on the back of the kitchen door.
‘I’ll not have you running errands for me.’
Sandrine pushed the letter into her pocket and was out of the door before Marieta could raise any more objections.
‘Won’t be long,’ she called.
The air seemed to crackle with anticipation, as if the streets were waiting for darkness to fall. A strange, expectant atmosphere. The boulevard Maréchal Pétain was deserted and all the small side streets in the Bastide were empty too. As if everyone had been warned to stay inside.
Sandrine propped her bicycle against the wall and got inside with minutes to spare before the post office shut. Only one counter was open.
‘I’d like this to go tonight,’ she said. ‘It’s urgent.’
The clerk, a middle-aged man with a pinched face, looked up at her over the top of his spectacles.
‘Interzone?’
‘No, Aude.’
He glanced at the address, then held out his hand. ‘Carte d’identité.’
‘Why do you need to see that?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t make the rules.’
Sandrine took her identity card from her pocket and pushed it under the glass. He peered at her personal details, looked up at her, then slid the card back.
‘Not a very good likeness,’ he said.
‘How much will it be?’
‘Fifty centimes.’
Sandrine pushed the money under the glass and was given a red stamp in return, which she licked and pressed to the envelope.
‘The box is outside.’
‘It will go tonight?’
‘No reason not to,’ the clerk replied. Then he pulled down his blind, leaving Sandrine staring at the blank glass.
She came out into the rue de la Préfecture, irritated by the peremptory manner of the clerk and by the fact that she’d had to show her carte d’identité. She dropped the letter into the box, then got on her bike.
The street was still empty, but the sense of watchfulness had intensified. As if there were eyes hidden behind every shutter, every door, waiting for what would happen when night came. Sandrine pushed off from the pavement. Then, without warning, a man rushed out from a tiny ruelle, right in front of her.
‘Hey, watch what you’re doing!’ she shouted.
She swerved, jerking the handlebars to the left to avoid him. Her front wheel hit the kerb and she half toppled towards the pavement, grazing her knuckles. Furious, she looked up.
‘You idiot . . .’
Then she stopped. Straightened up.
‘You,’ she said.
He was standing very still, his right hand holding the strap of his rucksack, his left clenched by his side. The same dark hair pushed back off his forehead. The same fierce, restless eyes. Tense, as if he might bolt at any moment.
‘It is you, isn’t it?’ she said.
He looked dazed, but this time he answered.
‘Yes.’
‘At the demonstration.’
Now a hint of a smile on his lips. ‘Yes.’
‘And yesterday. At Païchérou.’
‘Also me, yes.’
His voice was exactly as she remembered, and the presence of him, the memory of sandalwood and heat.
He looked down at her bike, then her scraped fingers. ‘I should have been watching where I was going.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Sandrine felt his eyes travel her face, as if trying to commit every feature to memory. Then, as though it was all happening to somebody else, she watched him raise his hand and gently touch the bruise on the side of her head. The street, the day, real life, all of it slipped away.
‘It’s not so bad,’ she said, aware her voice sounded high, odd even to her own ears. ‘It doesn’t hurt.’
He stepped back, let his hand fall to his side. She remembered to breathe.
‘I’m Sandrine, by the way,’ she managed to say. ‘Sandrine Vidal.’
He was looking at her, staring as if she was speaking a foreign language, then he laughed.
‘Raoul Pelletier,’ he said. ‘By the way.’
‘Third time lucky.’
‘Yes.’
He laughed again and ran his fingers over his hair. Sandrine realised, with a jolt, that the gesture was already familiar.
‘I didn’t think you’d recognised me earlier, in the boulevard Barbès.’
‘I didn’t at first,’ she admitted. ‘At least, I thought I knew you from somewhere, but . . . I wasn’t sure.’
‘No.’ He paused. ‘You were holding something. A necklace, chain. It belongs to a friend of mine.’
Sandrine’s eyes widened. ‘A friend? I . . .’
From further along the street there was the sound of footsteps, shouting. Then, a siren. Raoul’s expression changed, sharpened. The wariness came back into his eyes.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t—’
‘Why did you leave?’ she said quickly, not wanting to lose him again. ‘At the river.’
He caught his breath. ‘I didn’t want to.’
‘Then why?’
He glanced down the street, then back to her. ‘I heard the car, couldn’t risk it . . . Could have been anyone. You were there today, you saw what was happening, how things are.’
Another siren. This time, they both reacted. Sandrine looked back at him.
‘Where are you going?’
He shrugged. ‘I can’t stay in Carcassonne.’
‘Why not?’
He dropped his voice. ‘Most of my comrades have been arrested, others are missing. There’s a warrant out for me. They’ll be watching my flat, watching the homes of anyone, everyone I know. If I try to rent a room for the night, the moment I present my papers, they’ll find me. I have to leave.’
Sandrine didn’t realise what she was going to say, until the words were out of her mouth.
‘You could stay with us.’
Surprise flashed across his face. ‘What? No, of course I can’t.’
‘We have plenty of room.’
‘That’s not the point,’ he said.
Sandrine raised her chin. ‘I won’t turn you in, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
She saw a flash of anger in his eyes.
‘That’s not what I meant at all!’
‘Then what?’
He stepped back from her. ‘I’m not putting you – your family – at risk.’
‘How would we be at risk? No one would suspect, why would they? We’re not friends. There’s no connection between us. No one would come looking for you at our house.’
‘You don’t know anything about me.’
Sandrine smiled. ‘You saved my life.’
‘Hardly.’
‘I think you did,’ she said simply.
Raoul was shaking his head. ‘Look, I appreciate the offer, I do. But I can’t let you get involved. You don’t even know what I’m accused of doing.’
‘Are you guilty?’
‘No, but . . .’
‘Well then.’
In an adjacent street, a car backfired. Sandrine jumped, looking towards the noise, then back to Raoul.
‘The longer we stand here, the more likely it is you’ll be caught. There are police everywhere, patrols watching all the main routes out of town and the station.’ She held his gaze. ‘Well? What do you say?’
Raoul was staring at her.
‘What?’
The slightest smile crossed his lips. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met a girl like you,’ he said.
Sandrine flushed, but didn’t waver. ‘So you’ll come?’
‘You’re either very brave or very stupid.’
Now a flicker of a smile on her face too. ‘Stubborn, my sister would say. Not one to take no for an answer.’
In his eyes, she saw the battle he was waging with himself. A mixture of hope and temptation – and, she thought, something else she couldn’t quite identify.
‘What about your family?’ Raoul said.
‘It’s only me, my sister and our housekeeper. They’ll be pleased to help. My sister’s friends sometimes stay.’
For another endless moment, the invitation hung between them. Sandrine looked at his expression and saw his resistance was weakening.
‘Raoul,’ she said softly. ‘Please. Come.’
Finally, his resolve cracked. He dropped his shoulders. ‘For one night only.’
‘You can stay as long as you need,’ she said, trying not to smile too broadly.
‘Just tonight,’ he said.
But he was smiling too.
Leo Authié and Erik Bauer stood beneath the cypress trees in the centre of the cimetière Saint-Michel. The last of the sun struck the rows of white crosses and stone crescents in the military section of the graveyard, sending long, elongated shadows across the ground. Authié looked comfortable in the late afternoon heat, his white shirt crisp and laundered. Bauer kept dabbing at his neck with a handkerchief, his pale skin flushed beneath the brim of his hat. Southern blood versus northern, old enemies. For now, finding themselves allies.
‘He was weak.’
‘Weak!’ Authié said. ‘You killed him and learnt nothing.’
‘May I remind you, Herr Authié, that you handed Déjean to me when your attempts to extract information failed. If your men had done their job properly in the first instance, we would not be having this discussion. You are not in a position to criticise.’
Since Authié didn’t want to acknowledge the original mistake had been Laval’s, he didn’t argue.
‘What have you done with the body?’
‘I shall deal with it.’
Authié’s eyes narrowed. ‘He can’t be found in Carcassonne.’
‘I shall deal with it,’ Bauer repeated.
Authié pulled his cigarettes from his pocket, buying time while he thought about his next step. He offered the packet to Bauer.
‘I do not smoke.’
‘No, I don’t suppose you do,’ Authié said dismissively.
He lit up and watched the smoke circle upwards, light, into the sky. Bauer flapped it away with his hand, the heavy metal of his ring catching the light. Authié recognised the distinctive Totenkopfring worn by the SS elite, but was surprised at Bauer’s indiscretion. It was common knowledge that there were thousands of Nazis operating south of the line, but they didn’t usually broadcast their presence.
‘Did Déjean mention the key?’ Authié asked.
‘He admitted knowing of it,’ Bauer replied in the same tight, clipped voice, ‘but no more. If Rahn did leave the key with him, Déjean did not confirm it.’ He paused. ‘You are satisfied your men searched Déjean’s apartment properly?’
Authié met his gaze. ‘Yes.’
‘Today?’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘We have been rather busy today, Bauer, doing your dirty work for you.’
Bauer’s spongy skin flared red once more. ‘We have no jurisdiction in the South, as you very well know, Herr Authié.’
‘No official authority, but you have influence.’
Bauer stared at him a moment longer. ‘I understand Déjean was seen at the river.’
It took every scrap of self-control Authié possessed to keep his voice neutral. ‘Déjean tell you that?’
Bauer ignored the question. ‘And there was a girl there also. They made contact, yes?’
Authié turned cold, wondering how much Bauer knew. How he knew anything at all.
‘So Déjean did talk?’ he said, still fishing for an answer.
‘Who is she, Herr Authié? A courier?’
‘I’m inclined to think not, but we are investigating. She’s not a problem.’
‘She is dead?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Bauer.’
‘You left a witness to this matter? That was unwise.’
‘A judgement call.’
‘A poor one.’
Since he agreed, Authié didn’t respond. ‘She’s just a girl who happened to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time. This is not Berlin.’
The Nazi took a step forward. This close up, Authié could see flecks of spittle in the corners of his mouth.
‘This has been amateur. You have left too many loose ends.’
Authié met his gaze. ‘The problem, as I see it, is that you have failed to find out anything. We needed to know who Déjean was working for and what, if anything, he knew, before the trail went cold.’ He drew breath. ‘You – we – have both failed. You assured me you were making good progress in the Ariège.’
Bauer frowned. ‘When there is information to share, Herr Authié, I shall do so.’
‘You are asking me to accept your assurances on that point?’
‘It is difficult to proceed at the present time,’ said Bauer. ‘Do not pretend you don’t understand.’
For a moment, the two adversaries faced each other down, neither man attempting to mask their mistrust or their dislike.
‘Did Déjean say anything more about Otto Rahn?’
‘Rahn was a fool,’ Bauer said.
Authié smiled at having got a rise out of him. ‘But one of yours, wasn’t he? Same rank as you, Bauer, if I’m not mistaken.’
Bauer flushed. ‘Rahn was a degenerate.’
‘An Obersturmführer-SS all the same.’
Without warning, Bauer turned on his heel and strode back towards the entrance. His sudden departure took Authié by surprise, but it gave him a moment to gather his thoughts. The conversation had not gone as he had hoped. In truth, he was now more rather than less uneasy.
After a couple of moments more, he followed Bauer along the gravel path through the graves towards the rue du 24 Février. An unmarked car was waiting in the street.
‘Are you going back to Tarascon tonight?’ Authié said.
Bauer hesitated. ‘Not directly. I am obliged to go north for a matter of days. After that I shall return to the Ariège, yes.’
‘I expect to be kept informed of progress in the excavation.’
‘If and when there is something to report, you will be told.’
‘In person,’ Authié said.
Bauer flushed. ‘You are not in a position to dictate terms, Herr Authié. You seem to forget we are paying you. You work for us. My superiors expect a return on our investment. So far, your contribution has been disappointing.’
Authié held his gaze. ‘I could say the same about your contribution, Bauer.’ He gave a half-smile. ‘There has been no difficulty with the local police?’
Bauer became still. Authié continued to stare at him.
‘And no awkward questions about your presence in the area, I trust?’
‘No,’ the Nazi replied eventually, though the admission seemed to cost him a great deal. ‘I am obliged to you for your assistance in this.’
‘My pleasure,’ Authié said sarcastically. ‘So, as I was saying, you will keep me personally informed of any progress?’
For a moment, he thought Bauer would refuse to answer, but in the end he gave a tight nod, then got into the car and slammed the door.
Authié watched until the vehicle was out of sight, then, slowly, let his breath out. His pleasure at having won the final exchange of words was short-lived. Much of what Bauer had said had hit home. The Resistance was increasingly using girls to carry messages, packages. He had assumed her presence was an unfortunate coincidence, but he was starting to reconsider. Could the girl and Déjean have arranged to meet?
Authié started to walk back towards the Bastide. Although the tip about Déjean’s involvement with the Codex had, admittedly, come from Bauer in the first instance, he was starting to ask himself whether the collaboration was more trouble than it was worth. He paused outside the house where Déjean had been held, an unofficial prison that had come in useful on several occasions, then continued on. No one could possibly have known Déjean would be at the river at that point on Monday morning.
And what about Pelletier? Yesterday, at the meeting, he would hardly have shown everyone the necklace if there had been anything sinister about it. But had Authié underestimated him too? Perhaps it was a deliberate ploy to provoke a reaction? César had been more than usually belligerent at the meeting, and he and Pelletier were friends.
He looked across the Place des Armes towards the cathédrale Saint-Michel, golden in the light of the setting sun. Official tape had been stretched across the entrance to the Garden of Remembrance and two armed officers were keeping guard.
Authié turned right, following the road along the back of the Caserne Laperrine, mulling everything over in his mind. Pelletier and the girl and Déjean. What was the link between them? Was there any link at all?