Codex XII

GAUL

AQUIS CALIDIS

AUGUST AD 342

Arinius woke at dawn after a restless night. He knew he soon would have to leave his stone sanctuary. August was entering her final weeks, the temperature was growing less fierce. It was time for him to move on. He could not afford to stay any longer in these tranquil valleys.

For a week and more he had slept well. But last night the sweats had come once more and he had coughed and coughed until he thought his ribs might break. There were specks of blood on his clothes and a tight pressure in his chest. He was bone tired. A visit to the baths in Aquis Calidis, he hoped, might just keep the illness from taking hold.

The path down the hillside was pleasant, following the river on its meandering path through the valley through deep and ancient woods. Arinius felt his spirits lift. There was a breeze, and white wisps of clouds were veiling the face of the sun. There was no one about. He’d seen no one since Couzanium. No sign of bandits or trouble of any kind.

The confluence of salt- and freshwater rivers made Aquis Calidis a natural place for the Roman conquerors of the region to build a bathhouse. Hot, warm and cold springs, bristling with minerals, flowing naturally out of the ferruginous rock. Once, so he had heard in Couiza, visitors from all over Septimania had travelled the Via Domitia to the settlement. Senators, generals, the descendants of the families of the Tenth Legion, who had settled the land when Gaul had been absorbed by Caesar into Rome’s Empire. Times had changed. Now, most of those old spa towns were deserted, down on their luck, the once busy streets echoing with the footsteps of the past.

At the entrance to the town, Arinius stopped and looked at the buildings of the thermae with pleasure. Like the town itself, the buildings had seen better days, but there was nonetheless an elegance and a faded beauty in the Ionic columns and white marble caryatids and vaulted ceilings of the atrium. A row of arched windows and diamond-shaped openings, all perfectly in proportion. A classical building in the folds of the green hillside.

He peered into the gloom beyond. There was no attendant on duty and, not knowing the way things were run, he couldn’t tell if that was because he had come too early or because the baths no longer regularly opened. He could see no signs or smells of an unctuarium or gymnasium. The mosaic floors in the tepidarium were chipped and dull.

Arinius was disappointed, even though he had not expected much. The merchant had told him that few made the journey here any more and that local people – the grandchildren and great-grandchildren of the original inhabitants of the valley – had, little by little, turned away from the customs the Romans had imposed upon them and gone back to the ways of their ancestors.

Giving up on the idea of the bathhouse itself, he followed the signs to the hot springs, which were accessed via a narrow path leading down to the gorge cut by the flow of the water. He made his way along the riverbank on the far side, until he saw the hot spring at the side of the river. Arinius removed his leather sandals, left his cloak, tunic and undergarments folded on a rock, took off the bottle from around his neck. Then he climbed down into the hot, rust-coloured waters and settled himself comfortably.

With the water lapping pleasantly on his legs and feet, he looked up at the halo of green and wine-coloured leaves on the hillside that flanked the river gorge. He wondered what the archbishop of the community in Lugdunum would say if he could see him.

Arinius was aware that, in his months of solitude, he had travelled some distance from the strictures of the way of life in which he had been raised. He no longer saw privation as requisite, as essential for a greater understanding of God. Now he believed that God dwelt more in the natural world than in the confines of a building, a church, a shrine, anything made by men. He saw the hand of God in the stars at night, heard His breath in the birdsong and the music of the river. As he had become stronger, Arinius felt God moving in his blood, his bones, his muscles. This was the essence of his faith. Not in proselytising, not in the impulse that sought to subdue heresy, other faiths, but rather in a private and personal covenant. Arinius lay back in the water, a stone for his pillow, and closed his eyes.

He had no idea how long he had been lying there, only that the voice, when it came, was shockingly loud in the silence of the day.

‘Salve.’

His eyes snapped open. He looked up to see a man of middle years, a shock of grizzled grey hair on his head and chest, with broad arms and shoulders.

‘Mind if I join you?’

Arinius could not place the accent. He was immediately on his guard, but he gestured with his hand.

‘Of course not, please.’

The newcomer lowered himself into the waters with a grunt and a sigh. To begin with, he seemed content to sit in silence. From the scars and marks on his torso, the crooked line of his nose, Arinius suspected he had once been a soldier.

‘Where are you from, friend?’ the man asked.

Arinius didn’t believe the Abbot would still be hunting him after all these months, or so far south, but he blurred his answer all the same.

‘Carcaso,’ he replied. ‘A castellum some forty miles north.’

The stranger nodded. ‘I know it.’

‘What of you, amice?’

‘Tolosa,’ he replied.

Arinius recognised the name. He knew there was a large Christian community there. He looked at the stranger with a keener interest, wondering if he was of the same faith.

‘You are a long way from home,’ he said lightly.

The man looked directly at him. ‘As are you.’

Arinius nodded, but said nothing more. For a while longer they sat in awkward proximity, their feet nearly touching. Arinius glanced at the pile of clothes the man had placed on the riverbank, seeing the iron tip of a dagger in a leather sheath, resting on a heavy brown tunic. His sense of calm had left him and he was nervously aware that the Codex in its cedar tomb was in his bag. He had not felt he could leave it unguarded in his shelter, but the man had only to reach out a hand to find it. Arinius wanted to leave the pool, but he didn’t wish to offend his companion. Or provoke trouble.

He sat, uneasy, uncomfortable, conscious of the man watching him, until he could bear it no longer. Then he smiled, and excused himself. He got out of the hot waters, walked a little way along the bank to dry and to dress then, as quickly as he could manage, and without making it obvious, he retraced his steps back up to the road.

Only when he had climbed up out of the gorge and was standing close to the thermae did he turn around. He was disquieted to see the man was now nowhere to be seen.

Chapter 80

COUSTAUSSA

AUGUST 1942

Dawn. The first of the birds were beginning to sing. Light was giving shape back to the room. The heavy dresser, the objects collected over a lifetime.

Sandrine and Raoul were lying side by side in her father’s bedroom at the back of the house. A mirror image of one another, his dark hair and hers, his suntanned face and arms and her shoulders, lying bone to bone, skin against skin.

‘Are you frightened of what might happen?’

‘Not any more.’

‘No, I’m serious,’ she said.

Raoul smiled. ‘So am I.’

Sandrine sat up. They were lying on top of the sheet, almost dressed, a layer of innocent cotton and silk still between them. She looked towards the open window, the shutters left open to let the new day in, pinching herself. She was astonished that she didn’t feel the slightest bit self-conscious or awkward. She glanced at him, then away. She didn’t know if he had spent the night with a girl before; she assumed he had.

‘Are you all right?’ he said, sensing the shift in her. ‘You don’t want me to go?’

‘No. Stay.’

A small voice in her head wondered what Marianne would say, what Marieta would say, but she didn’t feel guilty. Nothing about it felt wrong.

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ he asked again.

Sandrine wrapped her bare arms around her knees. ‘Just thinking.’

‘That way madness lies.’

‘Yes.’

For a little while, they were quiet again.

‘Do you think Monsieur Baillard’s plan will work?’ she said eventually.

‘We’ll find out soon enough.’

‘You can’t be seen in Tarascon,’ she said. ‘The posters are everywhere now.’

‘I’ll be all right. I’m more worried about you,’ he said quietly. ‘You’re the one taking the risk.’

‘Monsieur Baillard will be there. And Geneviève and Eloise.’

‘I’m not happy. I don’t like the idea of Coursan – whatever his name actually is – being anywhere near you.’

‘I’ll be all right,’ she said, echoing his words. ‘Don’t worry.’

‘You can’t blame me for wanting to look after you.’

‘I don’t, it’s just . . .’

From downstairs, the sounds of breakfast being prepared floated up the stairs, intruding into their private world.

‘We’d better get up,’ she said.

She dressed in a pair of shorts and a sleeveless shirt, then ran downstairs to the kitchen. Marieta was sitting in the armchair darning a tea towel. Liesl was reading a book on photography, which Sandrine recognised from her father’s study. Monsieur Baillard sat at the table. If any of them realised that she and Raoul had spent the night together in the same room, nobody said anything.

Sandrine poured herself a cup of ersatz coffee from the pan on the stove, then joined Monsieur Baillard at the table. She looked at the sheet of paper, which had been transformed into a heavy yellow papyrus, the texture veined and covered with sharp black geometric letters.

‘Are you making progress, Monsieur Baillard?’

‘The age of the paper will not deceive an expert – it is many centuries too recent – but with what we have done, I believe it should be sufficient to deceive an untrained eye. For a short time, at least.’

‘What language is it?’

‘Coptic. Many of the early Christian texts, although originally in Greek, were translated into local languages. In Egypt, in this time period, Coptic was the language of theology and thought.’

‘Monsieur Baillard speaks and reads many ancient languages,’ said Marieta. ‘Hieroglyphics even, medieval Latin and Arabic, Hebrew . . .’

‘Now, Marieta,’ he said softly, raising his hands in embarrassment.

Sandrine grinned at the pride on Marieta’s face, relieved to see she was ever more like her old self. She heard footsteps, then Raoul appeared in the doorway. She felt Marieta’s eyes on her and suddenly worried she might guess, as she always did, what was going on.

‘Are you all right, Madomaisèla?’ Marieta said under her breath.

Sandrine smiled at her, then nodded. ‘I’m happy,’ she said.

Marieta held her gaze a moment, then turned to Raoul. ‘Sénher Pelletier, I hope you slept well. There is coffee on the stove.’

Chapter 81

CARCASSONNE

Lucie was waiting in the blue Peugeot 202 at the corner of the rue Mazagran. Marianne came out of the front door with her usual shopping basket. Suzanne went out of the back with the luggage. They didn’t want to risk Madame Fournier seeing the suitcase and putting two and two together.

Marianne and Lucie were both dressed for summer, in short-sleeved cotton dresses and straw hats. If they were stopped, they would look like any other girls out for a summer outing. Suzanne was wearing her customary slacks and shirt.

‘How did you get the car?’ Marianne said, putting her things in the boot.

‘My father went back to the Café Edouard last evening. His drinking companions carried him home, out for the count. I waited until I could hear him snoring, then crept in through the workshop, took the key and the car. By the time he wakes up, we’ll be south of Limoux.’

‘How did you manage to get enough fuel?’ Suzanne was peering at the three full cans of petrol on the floor in the back of the car.

‘From the “official” pumps,’ Lucie said. ‘I said it was for him. Returning POW and all that . . .’

They drove out on the Route de Toulouse, heading for the Montréal road. A few kilometres out of town, they saw their first roadblock. Ahead of them, a car was pulled over, the doors and bonnet open, being searched by police.

‘Shall we take another road?’ suggested Marianne.

Lucie turned off and doubled back, then followed a smaller road heading south.

They arrived in Couiza a little after midday. Lucie turned off the engine, then slumped theatrically back in her seat.

‘I know it’s not much further, but she’s got to cool down a little. I need to put fresh water in the radiator, otherwise she won’t cope with the hill. It’s steep, you said?’

Marianne nodded. She got out, then Suzanne climbed through from the back.

‘Hot,’ she said.

Lucie rolled her neck, to shake the drive out of her shoulders, then reached into the glove compartment, pulled out her powder compact and lipstick, tilted the rear-view mirror and started to do her face.

‘I look a sight,’ she said.

Suzanne lit a cigarette and walked away from the car.

‘She always has tobacco, how come?’

‘She claims her father’s allowance, I think,’ Marianne said, not adding the fact that it came more often from people Suzanne and she had helped. ‘How long do you think we’ll need? I’m keen to be there.’

‘Once I’ve filled her up with water, it won’t be long.’

The girls went to the Grand Café Guilhem on the bridge. One or two people recognised Marianne and nodded, but mostly people kept themselves to themselves. They took a table in the shade, close to the door, and ordered three glasses of wine.

Suzanne nodded to Marianne. ‘You think we’re safe here?’

Marianne shrugged.

‘How are you holding up, Lucie?’ she said quietly.

‘Fine and dandy,’ Lucie replied, though her eyes were anxious.

In the heat of the day, nothing was stirring. Few sounds were heard, just the occasional clatter of a plate or a glass from somewhere in the dark interior. They finished up, paid and walked back out into the blistering August sun.

Lucie fanned herself with her hat, Marianne looked around at the familiar landmarks, then her eyes widened.

‘It can’t be.’

‘What?’ Suzanne said.

‘There, look.’

Coming towards them, on the far side of the concourse, was Sandrine, accompanied by an elderly man in a pale linen suit.

Chapter 82

At first Sandrine thought she was imagining it. She lifted her hand to shield her eyes and saw she wasn’t mistaken. Lucie’s corn-coloured hair and Suzanne’s short crop were so distinctive. And her sister was wearing her favourite blue dress.

‘Marianne!’ she cried. She walked faster, then broke into a run. ‘Marianne, I can’t believe it.’

She flung her arms around her, then kissed Suzanne and Lucie.

‘I can’t believe it,’ she said again. ‘What are you doing here? More to the point, how did you even get here? We had such a storm, the line’s still closed at Alet-les-Bains. There’ve been no trains for days.’

‘Lucie “borrowed” one of her father’s cars,’ Marianne said, making inverted commas in the air with her hands. ‘As for why, since you didn’t call – and didn’t answer the telegram I sent – Suzanne and I thought we had better come to see for ourselves everything was all right.’

‘Telegram?’ Sandrine shook her head. ‘Didn’t get anything, but never mind. Marieta will be so pleased to see you. I’m so pleased to see you.’

‘It’s nice to be out of Carcassonne,’ said Marianne. ‘How’s it been? Everything all right?’

‘A bit odd at first, without you and Papa,’ Sandrine admitted, ‘but then . . .’ She paused, choosing her words carefully. ‘But the thing is – and there’s nothing to worry about now, because she’s going to be fine – the thing is, Marieta was taken ill almost immediately we arrived.’

‘What kind of ill?’ Marianne said quickly.

‘A heart attack,’ Sandrine said, then, seeing Marianne’s expression, rushed on. ‘Very mild.’

Marianne put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh God.’

Sandrine hugged her. ‘She’s on the mend, really she is. It was more of a warning, but it was pretty frightening at the time. The doctor says there’s no reason she shouldn’t make a full recovery. She just has to keep off her legs and let us do the work.’

‘How’s she managing that?’

‘Not awfully well. But Liesl’s been wonderful. And without Monsieur Baillard, well . . . Let me introduce you.’ He was standing a little apart, his hat held in his hands. ‘He’s the friend Marieta wrote to, remember?’ ‘She used to work for him in Rennes-les-Bains when she was young and why she was so keen to come to Coustaussa in the first instance.’ She smiled. ‘Monsieur Baillard, may I present my sister Marianne.’

He held out his hand. ‘Madomaisèla Vidal.’

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Baillard.’

‘The pleasure is mine,’ he said formally. He turned to Sandrine. ‘I will leave you to your reunions. You are certain, filha? There is still time for you to change your mind.’

Sandrine shook her head. ‘No. I want to do it.’

He nodded. ‘Very well. Until Wednesday, then. Dimècres.’

Sandrine dropped her voice. ‘Promise me you’ll look after Raoul, Monsieur Baillard. Don’t let any harm come to him.’

‘I will do my best,’ he said.

He raised his hat again, then slowly walked across the concourse towards the Espéraza road. Sandrine watched him go with a catch in her throat, something about his unruffled presence reminding her of her father. She sighed.

‘What’s happening on Wednesday?’ Marianne asked.

Sandrine turned to her sister. ‘Antoine Déjean’s funeral in Tarascon.’

‘Yes, we saw in the newspaper he had been found,’ she said quietly, ‘though I’m not sure—’

‘Antoine was working for Monsieur Baillard.’

Marianne looked doubtfully after the frail white figure, like a ghost on the far corner of the square.

‘Working for him? In what capacity?’

‘I’ll explain when we’re home,’ said Sandrine, dropping her voice even lower. ‘Raoul’s stepped in to help now.’

Marianne’s eyes narrowed. ‘He’s been in touch?’

A brief smiled played across her sister’s lips. ‘Better. He came in person.’

‘How did he know you were here?’ she said.

Sandrine shrugged. ‘He took a chance. He was worried that now Antoine has been found, Coursan would make renewed efforts to track me down.’ She shrugged again. ‘I don’t know if he’s right.’

‘Coursan . . .’

‘Coursan, or whatever his name is. The man who set Raoul up.’

‘Authié,’ Marianne said. ‘It’s Authié.’

‘It is? How do you know?’

‘I had his description from several people, in the end,’ Marianne said, going on to explain what had happened in Carcassonne. ‘Attached to the Deuxième Bureau.’

‘Well,’ Sandrine said, keeping her voice steady. ‘I’m sure everyone’s worrying too much. If he – Authié, Coursan – wanted to find me, he could. Everyone knows we have a house here. And as Lucie said, it was me who handed my details to the police in the first place. It’s not her fault.’

‘All the same . . .’ Marianne started, then decided to hold her tongue. ‘Where’s Raoul now? Still in Coustaussa?’

Sandrine shook her head. ‘He left this morning with Geneviève. She’s taking him to somewhere south of Belcaire, where Eloise will meet him and take him on to Tarascon. He can’t travel openly, there are posters everywhere.’

‘Seen them,’ Suzanne said. ‘And I’m sorry to interrupt, but are you ready to get going? The waiter wants the table and Lucie needs to lie down.’

‘Why? What’s wrong with Lucie?’ asked Sandrine.

Marianne sighed. ‘We have a lot more to tell you too.’

Codex XIII

GAUL

AQUIS CALIDIS

AUGUST AD 342

Arinius walked quickly up through the woods. He was breathless and his chest was tight, but he didn’t slow his pace, despite the heat. He could see no one and heard nothing unusual, nothing more than sounds of the land – rabbits in the undergrowth, the occasional bird on the wing, the stridulation of crickets in the dry grasslands. Common sounds that somehow now carried a sense of threat within them. There was no one around, the hillside was deserted, but he felt he was being watched.

In the deepest part of the wood, he paused. Faint but unmistakable, he heard it. The crack of a twig, the sound of footsteps in the bone-dry undergrowth, the indication that there was someone – or something – on the slopes below. An animal, a boar or stag? A person? Arinius stood still, straining to hear, but the wood echoed silent around him.

After a minute or two more, he set off again, walking even faster. Turning round, looking into the ancient evergreen shadows of the wood. Breaking into a run, his own fear snapping at his heels.

Without warning, he felt himself flying backwards. His cloak wrenched hard at his neck and he felt the clasp on his mother’s brooch snap and fly off into the undergrowth as his feet went from under him. He started to fall, tumbling off the path into the thick undergrowth. Arinius threw out his hands to protect himself, trying to grasp at a root or the trunk of a tree to slow himself down, but he kept somersaulting down the slope.

Finally he came to a halt. For a moment he lay sprawled on the steep ground, looking up through the canopy of leaves to the blue sky, dazed and disorientated. Little by little the world came back into focus. He rolled on to his side, then got himself into a sitting position. He put his hand to his leg, and his fingers came back sticky with blood. His hands were scratched too.

He looked back up to where he’d slipped, and realised he hadn’t lost his footing, but had rather walked into a rope tied between two trees. A trapper’s net. At least, he hoped that was what it was. The alternative was more disquieting.

Then he heard the sound again. There was no doubt that someone was walking up the path, following the route he had taken, someone trying not to make any noise. A steady and careful placing of one foot after the other.

Arinius looked around in panic, then realised that in fact his fall might be the saving of him. Unless the person tracking him left the path and descended into the thicket of the slopes, they wouldn’t see him. Struggling not to make any noise that would betray his hiding place, he slithered into the narrow gap between the thickest of the laurel bushes, and pulled his cloak around him. He had a clear view of the path and, above and to his left, the trapper’s net itself.

The footsteps got closer, closer. Arinius held his breath, certain the frantic beating of his heart would give him away. He peered up through the veil of leaves. Feet, legs, a hand resting on the hilt of a hunting knife. Broad shoulders and back, a shock of grizzled grey hair. Even though he had been expecting it, it was a blow to find his suspicions confirmed. The man had followed him from Aquis Calidis.

Suddenly Arinius felt the familiar rasping in his throat. Desperate to prevent an attack, he swallowed hard, then again to stop himself coughing. He put his hand over his mouth, steadying his breathing as he had learnt to do, and gradually felt the irritation recede.

He crossed himself in silent thanks.

He watched the man bend down and touch the rope, as if he was hoping to see some indication that his quarry had passed this way. Then he straightened up, stepped over it and carried on up to where the path diverged. The left-hand spur led towards the shepherds’ settlement. The right-hand route doubled back towards the villages to the east of Aquis Calidis.

Arinius pressed his bag close to his side, grateful that he had left little of value in the camp.

Time passed. Arinius lost track of how long he waited, but still he didn’t move from the sanctuary of the deep evergreen. Still, the crack of arid leaves or a stone dislodged on the path. The footsteps grew more and more faint, until finally there was no sound at all.

He thought the man had gone in the opposite direction. He was certain of it, yet waited longer. The cut on his leg was stinging, but it didn’t really hurt. The shadows lengthened as the sun moved round, turning the leaves from gold to green once more in the changing of the late afternoon light.

Finally, when he was certain the threat had passed, Arinius came out of his hiding place. He stood up and stretched, flexing his muscles and bringing the life back into his fingers and his toes. There had been no sound at all for some time, but he was still careful.

He climbed back up to where he’d fallen and paddled his hands in the dry leaves, looking for his mother’s brooch. He couldn’t find it. Much as it pained him to leave it behind, he didn’t feel he could delay any longer. He had put his own wishes before his mission. He should never have stayed in the valley for so long.

When he caught his first sight of his stone dwelling, he stopped and cast his eyes around. He saw no signs the camp had been discovered, and when he cautiously went inside, everything was exactly as he had left it.

Already nostalgic for the time he had spent in this patch of land, he packed his few belongings. He left anything that was not essential for the final stage of his journey.

Arinius looked out over the garrigue, the grassland bleached white in the heat of the day, and wondered if he would return to watch the sun set over these hills again. He feared he would not. He put his hand on the stone, still retaining some heat from the day, imprinting the shape of it on the flesh of his palm. Then he took a final look around at the curved entrance and the flat plot of land behind it where he might, in a different story, have planted chard or carrots. Created his own garden.

With a catch in his throat, Arinius set out on the final leg of his journey. Bearing the Codex to its final resting place in the mountains of Pyrène.

Chapter 83

BELCAIRE

AUGUST 1942

Raoul was sitting in the woods south of Belcaire. Knees drawn up, his jacket unbuttoned and the laces of his boots loosened at the top, he had his pistol in his pocket and his rucksack propped between his legs.

They had made good time. Geneviève Saint-Loup taking him across country through Quillan and Lavelanet, skirting around the road leading to Montségur, then on to Belcaire where he was due to meet her sister, Eloise, who’d guide him to the final destination.

‘Smoke?’ he asked.

The boy who’d come to tell him Eloise had been delayed had the same dark hair and dark skin of most of the people of the Tarascon valleys. He nodded, and Raoul passed him the cigarette. The boy took a couple of deep drags, then passed it back.

‘Where are you from?’

‘Hereabouts,’ the boy replied. He’d obviously been told not to give any information away. ‘You?’

‘Carcassonne originally.’

‘You’re a long way from home.’

‘It’s not really home any more,’ he said with a sudden flash of grief for Bruno. Grief, then guilt. He hadn’t thought about his mother for some days. He had considered writing, but he was sure the house would be under surveillance. He sighed. His mother wouldn’t read a letter anyway.

‘Where were you stationed?’ the boy asked.

Raoul brought his thoughts back to the present. ‘On the Maginot Line to start with, the secteur fortifié in Faulquemont. What about you?’ he added, despite the fact the boy didn’t look old enough to have fought anywhere.

‘Missed it,’ he said. ‘Making up for it now.’ He cast a quick look at Raoul. ‘You know?’

‘More important now,’ Raoul said, and saw the boy flush at the compliment. ‘After the first few months, I got sent to the Ardennes. March 1940.’

‘Did you see much fighting?’

‘Not much. Spent most of my time being posted from one place to another.’

‘What was the point of that?’

‘You tell me.’ Raoul shrugged. ‘None of it makes sense to me. Didn’t know what they were doing.’

The boy offered Raoul his canteen. Raoul took a swig, blinked as the rum hit the back of his throat, then wiped the neck before handing it back.

‘You got someone?’ he said. ‘A girl?’

The boy rummaged inside his top jacket pocket. He produced a cheap holiday snapshot and held it out to Raoul between dirty, nicotine-stained fingers.

‘Coralie,’ he said proudly. ‘We can’t afford to get married yet, but as soon as I’ve got enough for a ring – silver, something classy, you know – I’m going to ask.’

Raoul looked at the photograph of a gentle, plump girl holding an unwilling kitten. She looked the spit of Geneviève.

‘Pretty,’ he said, handing the picture back. ‘She’s a lucky girl.’

‘Thanks.’ The boy put the photo away. ‘What about you, are you married?’

Raoul shook his head. ‘Not married, no.’

‘Don’t want to be tied down?’

The simple innocence of his attempt at a man-to-man conversation made Raoul smile. He passed the cigarette across again. ‘No, it’s not that,’ he said. ‘There is someone.’

‘Got a picture?’

Raoul tapped the side of his head. ‘Up here, you know?’

‘Coralie and me have known each other since we were so high. Can’t wait to be married, she can’t. One of four sisters, all look just the same. It’s her oldest sister, Eloise, who’s coming later.’

Raoul smiled. ‘I’ve met Geneviève.’

The boy put the snap away again. ‘If you’re happy with your girl,’ he said, ‘I’d hang on to her.’

‘I intend to,’ he said seriously. ‘Maybe I should even take a leaf out of your book.’

‘Then why wait? I’m telling you, it’s all girls want. Marriage, a nice house to look after, a couple of kids.’

Raoul hid a smile, suspecting that Sandrine might want rather more than that. But the simple image caught at his heart all the same. The thought of her standing at the door, waving him goodbye as he went off to work in the morning, being there when he came home. A world that no longer existed.

He finished the cigarette, pinched the ash at the end, then put the stub in his pocket. He leaned back against the tree, looking around at the deep green of the woods and the mountains beyond, and waited for night to come. It was going to be a long wait.

Chapter 84

COUSTAUSSA

Sandrine, Marianne, Suzanne and Lucie were sitting at the table in the kitchen. While the sisters talked, Suzanne had raided Monsieur Vidal’s cellar. Geneviève had cycled up from Rennes-les-Bains to let Sandrine know Raoul had arrived safely in Belcaire, and stayed to help Liesl – under precise orders from Marieta – prepare a scratch meal.

Two hours later and the table was covered in empty plates and dishes, wine bottles. Suzanne sat by the cold fireplace, smoking. Lucie was curled up in an armchair like a cat, taking quick, sharp puffs of a cigarette and tapping the ash into the ashtray. Geneviève and Liesl were at the sink washing up and Marieta had gone to lie down.

The atmosphere had been convivial and sociable until Sandrine had told Marianne what Monsieur Baillard was planning. She hadn’t shared with her all the information about the Codex, imagining what her reaction might be, but had confined her explanation to the plan itself.

Even so, the mood changed.

‘It’s ridiculous,’ Marianne said again.

Sandrine glanced at the clock. ‘If all goes according to plan, by this time tomorrow Raoul will have set the trap.’ She frowned. ‘Then we’ll see.’

Marianne threw her hands in the air. ‘Suppose it does all go “according to plan”, as you put it. And they – whoever they are – fall for this ruse of Monsieur Baillard’s. Then what? If Authié is pursuing you and Raoul because of this, then he’s going to come looking for you. Even if it’s someone else, with German money behind them, you and Raoul are making yourselves sitting targets. You’re playing with fire.’

Sandrine sighed. ‘We’ve been through this. All we’re doing is attempting to buy Monsieur Baillard more time to find the real Codex and also to deflect attention away from us. As soon as Monsieur Saurat in Toulouse confirms—’

‘If they find the forgery, if it’s taken to him,’ Marianne interrupted. ‘If.’

‘All right, if,’ Sandrine said, throwing a look at her sister. She wished Marianne would stop putting so many obstacles in the way. She was terrified enough as it was without her pointing out all the things that could go wrong.

‘When they – Authié – do find out it’s a fake, there’s no reason for them to think I was involved in the deception,’ Sandrine said firmly. ‘I’ll have passed on information in good faith, that’s the point. Just women’s chattering.’ She paused. ‘Can’t you see, Marianne, it’s the only way to get Authié to leave us alone. The problem’s not going to solve itself of its own accord.’

‘You are being naïve,’ Marianne said, her voice hard with frustration. ‘All of you.’

Geneviève turned around from the sink. ‘Monsieur Baillard won’t let anything happen to Sandrine,’ she said.

‘In the same way he didn’t let anything happen to Antoine Déjean?’ Marianne snapped.

Geneviève flushed.

‘I’m sorry,’ Marianne said quickly. ‘That was uncalled for. I’m just on edge.’

‘Antoine didn’t follow Monsieur Baillard’s instructions closely enough,’ Geneviève said quietly. ‘But Sandrine will. Raoul will.’

Marianne said nothing for a moment. She glanced at Suzanne, then started talking again.

‘I know you all think I’m making too much fuss. But I think it’s absurd that you’re deliberately putting yourselves in danger for something like this . . . this fantasy. There’s real work to be done, real people suffering every day.’

She stopped, the fight suddenly going out of her voice. Liesl too now turned around and looked at Marianne. An uncomfortable stalemate settled like a cloud over the kitchen. Suzanne reached across and squeezed Marianne’s hand, then sat back. Geneviève was watching Sandrine. Only Lucie, having excused herself to go to the bathroom, seemed unaffected by the awkward atmosphere when she came back into the kitchen.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said.

‘Yes?’ said Sandrine quickly, grateful for a change of subject.

‘About how to get a letter to Max. We’re not so far from Le Vernet. Wouldn’t it be possible to go there? To the village, at least. See if someone won’t take a letter to him.’

Sandrine glanced at her sister, who was now staring in disbelief at Lucie.

‘For crying out loud, what on earth’s got into everyone? You can’t just turn up at Le Vernet. It’s madness. You’ll be arrested.’

‘But you read all the time of messages being smuggled in, smuggled out of prison camps. Raoul told you, Sandrine, didn’t he, about how the women would stand outside the camp at Argelès and push letters through the wire to their husbands?’

‘Yes,’ she admitted, ‘but that was before the war. Le Vernet’s different.’

‘Why’s it different?’

‘It’s a prison camp,’ Marianne snapped. ‘Not a refugee camp.’

‘But Suzanne told me it’s still under French control,’ Lucie replied. ‘And you yourself told me, Marianne, that the Croix-Rouge are allowed to go in. They deliver food parcels, letters.’

‘It’s impossible.’

Lucie looked at her, then decided not to argue any more. Suzanne opened another bottle of wine and drew Marianne aside. Geneviève and Liesl finished drying up and started to put the dishes away in the cupboard. Lucie hesitated, then came and sat down beside Sandrine.

‘How are you feeling?’ Sandrine asked her.

Lucie pulled a face. ‘So-so. Better in the evenings.’

‘Are you excited about it?’ she said, glancing at Lucie’s flat stomach.

‘It doesn’t feel real yet.’

‘I suppose it doesn’t.’

They sat for a moment longer.

‘It’s not such a stupid idea,’ Lucie said in a low voice. ‘I can’t just sit here doing nothing. Max not knowing. It’s not right. I have to tell him. He has to know he will have a family waiting for him when he’s released.’

Sandrine frowned. ‘It’s true, the camp isn’t entirely sealed off. The village certainly isn’t, at least it wasn’t. Raoul knows people who were held there. But, again,’ she sighed, ‘who knows how much things have changed.’

Lucie looked at her. ‘Will you come with me?’

‘Me, why me?’

‘Obviously Marianne won’t,’ she carried on. ‘She’ll try to stop me, and she’s still cross with me anyway, whatever she says.’ She dropped her voice even lower. ‘I’ve been thinking about it all day. I’m going to have a go, whether you come or not. I’d just rather I wasn’t on my own.’

Sandrine found Lucie’s bravado strangely impressive. Liesl, who’d clearly been eavesdropping on the conversation, now joined them.

‘If I write a letter too, would you take it, Lucie? I know I can’t go, but if I could let Max know I’m all right. That you’re all being so kind.’

‘Hold on,’ Sandrine jumped in. ‘Nothing’s agreed.’

‘Of course I will,’ Lucie said to Liesl.

‘Will you drive?’

‘We’re nearly out of petrol and it will be hard to get any all the way out there. Besides, the car might draw attention. By now, my father’s probably reported it missing.’

‘The train, then. What line serves Le Vernet?’

‘It’s on the Toulouse to Foix line,’ Geneviève said, overhearing the conversation. ‘The station after Pamiers. That section of track wasn’t affected by the storm, though it’s a very small line. Unreliable.’

‘What’s unreliable?’ Marianne asked, catching the tail end of the conversation.

Sandrine didn’t want the argument to blow up again. More than that, she saw how exhausted her sister looked and didn’t want to make things worse.

‘Nothing really,’ she said. ‘We’re just talking things over.’

‘The railway to Le Vernet,’ Lucie said. ‘I’m still thinking about how to take a letter to Max.’

‘It’s a hopeless idea,’ Marianne said wearily. ‘You’ll be arrested long before you get anywhere near the camp.’

‘I agree she can’t just turn up at the gate,’ Sandrine said. ‘But if we go to the village, we could at least find out how other relatives manage to be in contact with their men inside.’

‘There might be a way of paying someone to take the letter in. A guard, perhaps,’ Geneviève said.

‘Perfectly hopeless, Marianne repeated.’

‘I’m prepared to give it a try,’ Sandrine said, keeping her voice calm. ‘At least go to the village, then see.’

‘I don’t mind going too, if that’s helpful,’ said Geneviève.

Marianne shook her head. ‘Nobody’s going anywhere. Don’t you understand anything?’

To Sandrine’s astonishment, she saw there were tears in her sister’s eyes.

‘Hey,’ Suzanne said in her gruff way. ‘It’s all right.’

Without another word, Marianne got up, put her chair under the table, and walked out on to the terrace. The door rattled shut behind her. For a moment, none of the girls moved. The room itself seemed to be holding its breath. Suzanne was on the point of following Marianne, when Sandrine stood up.

‘I’ll go,’ she said.

Chapter 85

Marianne was sitting on the wooden seat, looking out at the dusk. Long shadows stretched across the garrigue as the last vestiges of light slipped from the sky.

‘We didn’t mean to upset you,’ Sandrine said, sitting down beside her. ‘We’re only thinking out loud, trying to find a way to help Lucie.’

She tailed off, seeing her sister wasn’t listening. Marianne continued to sit motionless, her hands resting in her lap.

‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ Sandrine said again.

‘I know,’ Marianne said.

‘Lucie’s desperate, that’s the thing. She’ll try to get there on her own if one of us doesn’t go with her.’ She paused. ‘And you and Suzanne, you do things to help other people – strangers – all the time. You take risks. Is this really so different?’

‘We never deliberately put ourselves in harm’s way,’ she said. ‘But it’s not that.’

‘Then what?’

Marianne shook her head, as if no words would be enough. Sandrine couldn’t remember seeing her sister so beaten down before, so unsure. She was always so certain, so self-controlled.

‘What is it, Marianne? Tell me?’

For a moment Marianne didn’t react, then she gave a long, deep sigh.

‘The thing is, I don’t think I can do it any more,’ she said. ‘That’s all. I’m too tired, I’m . . .’ she shrugged. ‘I’m worn out.’

‘Of course you are . . .’

‘I can’t do it any more, Sandrine. Worry about everyone, keep everyone, be responsible for everyone. Make sure that the bills are paid, that we have enough to eat. I’m just worn out and I wish . . .’ She broke off. Sandrine took her hand, but it felt like a dead thing, cold and lifeless. ‘Sometimes I wish I could look away, like other people seem to be able to do. Not feel it’s my job to put things right.’

‘But you’ve always been the one to put everything right,’ Sandrine said gently, ‘even when we were little. Papa always said, didn’t he? You always made everything right.’

‘This situation with Lucie, like this business with Monsieur Baillard, I feel it’s my job to say no. To try to keep you all safe, even though it makes you – Lucie – cross. I do understand why she wants to try to go to Le Vernet, of course I do, and why you want to go with her. But it’s always me that has to tell everyone to be careful. To watch out for you all.’

‘Well then,’ Sandrine said affectionately.

‘I’m frightened all the time, can’t you see it?’

‘Frightened, you?’

‘Terrified. Terrified we’ll be caught, terrified of the knock on the door in the middle of the night when the police come. Then what will happen to you? To Marieta? I can’t do it. Not any more.’

Sandrine hesitated for a moment, then spoke. ‘I can look after myself now,’ she said in a steady voice. ‘I can make my own decisions – mistakes, no doubt. You’ve done enough.’ She paused. ‘I’ll go with Lucie, keep her from getting into trouble. I feel I owe her, you know. For not doing something when Max was arrested. I know you think I’m being silly, but it’s what I feel.’ She paused. ‘We’ll be back before you know it.’

For a moment, Sandrine didn’t think Marianne had properly heard. She put her arm around her sister’s shoulder and drew her close.

‘You don’t have to look after everyone any more.’

Marianne gave a hollow laugh. ‘It’s not as simple as that. I can’t just stop worrying, turn it off like a tap. I’ve had a lifetime of it.’

Sandrine smiled. ‘I know that. But from now on, you’re no longer the big sister and me the baby. We’ll just be sisters. Equals.’

‘Just sisters.’ Marianne looked at Sandrine, then held out her hand. ‘All right, it’s a deal.’

‘Deal.’ Sandrine hesitated. ‘But you won’t give up? You’ll keep doing things, you and Suzanne?’

Marianne sighed. ‘Of course. Someone’s got to.’

The girls sat there a while longer, looking out over the landscape of their shared childhood, the house that had kept them safe for so long. Then, from inside, Suzanne’s laugh and Liesl’s lighter tones, Geneviève talking. Then the slap of cards on the tabletop, and Lucie’s triumphant cry.

‘There!’

Marianne smiled. ‘She’s a funny mixture, Lucie. Tough as old boots in some ways, but so naïve in others. Head in the sand.’

‘Has she always been like that?’

‘Always. She was never the slightest bit interested in the world around her. Before Max came along, it was all films and magazines, Hollywood, the latest releases. Endless discussions of fashion and movie stars. And now a baby on the way.’ Marianne sighed.

‘Do you think it’s wrong?’ Sandrine asked, genuinely interested in what she thought. ‘Marieta does.’

‘Because they’re not married, do you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘I think they should have been more careful. But wrong, no.’

‘Lucie wanted to get married. It’s not their fault they aren’t.’

‘I know,’ Marianne said quietly. ‘But even if by some miracle Max is released, that won’t change. In the meantime, Lucie can’t go home. She’s got no money. How’s she going to live?’

‘She’ll have to stay here, won’t she?’

Marianne nodded. ‘I can’t see an alternative. She can’t go back to Carcassonne, not now her father’s there.’ She was quiet for a moment, then she turned and looked at Sandrine. ‘You are determined to go to Le Vernet?’

‘Lucie is,’ she replied, ‘and I don’t see how we can let her go alone.’

‘Won’t it interfere with what you’ve agreed with Monsieur Baillard?’

Sandrine hesitated. ‘No. I’m not supposed to do anything until going to Tarascon on Wednesday. I’d rather do something, instead of sitting around waiting and worrying about Raoul or whether the plan will work. Five days. Plenty of time to get to Le Vernet and back.’

Marianne thought for a moment longer. ‘If she’s determined,’ she said, in her more usual, practical voice, ‘tell Lucie not to write explicitly about the baby in the letter. She has to find a way of telling Max without spelling it out, as it were. So the censor doesn’t realise.’

‘Would it matter so much if the censor knows?’

‘This baby will have Jewish blood, Sandrine. If no one knows he – or she – exists, then there’s a chance of the child being safe. Whatever happens to Max.’

Sandrine turned cold. She felt stupid not to have realised for herself.

‘Of course, yes.’

‘And only go to the village,’ Marianne continued. ‘Find someone to take the letter up to the camp. I’ll telephone Carcassonne and see if the Red Cross has been allowed into Le Vernet recently.’

‘Lucie will be really grateful.’

‘She should be,’ Marianne said, with a flicker of her old impatience.

She stood up and smoothed down her skirt. Sandrine stood up too.

‘Do you feel less wretched now?’

Marianne thought for a moment. ‘Oddly, I do.’ She smiled. ‘Come on, let’s join the others.’

Inside the kitchen, the air was thick with tobacco smoke and the gentle scent of a citronelle candle.

On the table, the new bottle of red wine stood half empty. The white china ashtray was patterned with grey ash and white filters with smudges of red lipstick. The game of cards immediately stopped. Everyone looked round.

‘All right?’ asked Suzanne.

Marianne nodded. ‘Yes. Fine now.’

Suzanne held up the bottle. ‘A glass?’

‘Please.’

‘Sandrine?’

‘Just a little.’

Lucie immediately went over to Sandrine, another cigarette between her red-painted nails.

‘Well?’ she said in a whisper.

‘It’s all right. We’ll go,’ Sandrine replied. ‘But to the village, not to the camp itself.’

Lucie sighed with relief. ‘You talked her round, thank you.’

‘No,’ Sandrine said, feeling protective of her sister. ‘No, not at all. Marianne understands how you feel, Lucie. She’s just trying to keep us from getting into hot water.’

‘Well, however you did it, thanks, kid,’ she said, sounding like her old self. ‘I intend to go, one way or the other, but I’d rather have Marianne’s blessing.’

Sandrine put her hand on Lucie’s shoulder. ‘We’ll try to find someone to deliver the letter for you. Whatever happens, there’s no chance of you seeing Max. You accept that?’

‘I know, I know.’

From the expression on Lucie’s face, Sandrine could see she wasn’t listening.

‘Lucie, I’m serious.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I understand.’

‘Just so long as you do.’

Sandrine caught her sister smiling at her, a mixture of amusement and affection on her face. Something else too, regret perhaps. Sandrine smiled too, then raised her glass to the room.

‘Since we’re all here for once,’ she began.

‘Wait!’ Liesl said, seizing her camera. ‘All right, I’m ready.’

‘To us,’ Sandrine gave the toast.

Geneviève, Suzanne and Lucie all raised their glasses. Marianne tilted hers towards Sandrine.

‘To us all,’ Sandrine repeated, as the flash went off. ‘A notre santé!’

Chapter 86

TARASCON

Baillard made good speed to Tarascon and went immediately to Pujol’s house, where he explained what he was intending to do with Sandrine and Raoul’s help.

‘Do you trust Pelletier?’ Pujol asked.

Baillard had considered the question seriously. Raoul reminded him of men he had known in the past, one man in particular. The same combination of bravery and certainty, lack of judgement on occasion, coupled with loyalty and courage. That man had proved himself to be a true cavalier of the Midi. They had been rivals. In the final hours of his life they had become, if not friends, then certainly allies.

‘I do.’

Pujol stared at him. ‘You don’t look too sure about that, Audric.’

‘An old man’s memories, nothing more.’

Pujol grunted. ‘Boy’s got a murder charge hanging over him.’

‘Yes.’

‘Is he guilty?’

‘No.’

‘Framed?’

‘It seems so.’

Pujol topped up his glass. ‘Where’s Pelletier now?’

‘Went with Geneviève Saint-Loup as far as Belcaire, then her sister Eloise was to meet him and take him to the site.’

‘Why didn’t you travel together?’

‘Safer alone. And people less likely to remark on the presence of a young man with a girl, è?’

‘Where have you chosen to hide it?’

‘On the Col de Pyrène. It is far enough away from the real site, but at the same time within the region where excavations have taken place. We cannot be sure how much information Antoine was forced to give them.’

‘No,’ Pujol said. ‘I suppose it’s worth going to all this trouble? You don’t think it’s a bit of a sideshow? Now you have the map, why not simply concentrate on retrieving the genuine Codex?’

‘Smoke and mirrors, Achille. We need to give them something to stop them looking. If they believe they have the text they seek, that will give us a free hand without fear of interruption. It’s also the only chance to persuade them to lose interest in Pelletier and Madomaisèla Sandrine.’

‘Possibly,’ Pujol said, then poured himself another glass of wine. ‘Where did Antoine find the map? Did Rahn send it to him?’

Baillard shook his head. ‘If it had come from Rahn, Antoine would have acted sooner. There is a gap of some two years between Rahn’s death in March 1939 and Antoine being demobbed and beginning to search the mountains in earnest.’

‘I dare say you’re right.’

Baillard sighed. ‘Have you had any luck with the names I gave you?’

Pujol pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘I asked around, but I’m afraid the news is all bad.’ He put his spectacles on. ‘César Sanchez was stabbed near the railway station in Carcassonne a day or two after the Bastille Day demonstration. It’s been dismissed as a blood feud between Spanish workers. No one claimed the body, no family so far as the police can tell, but my contact said a woman had been asking after him.’

Baillard remembered something Sandrine had told him. ‘In all likelihood that will be Suzanne Peyre. She and Sandrine’s sister, Marianne, are active in Carcassonne. Sanchez was a friend of hers.’

‘Did Pelletier know?’

‘No, he saw César being arrested. Someone must have given an order for him to be released from custody.’

‘I checked. There was no arresting officer listed.’ Pujol went back to his notes. ‘Gaston and Robert Bonnet were both arrested and released, in the end, without charge.’ He peered at Baillard over the top of his glasses. ‘You know there are nearly seven thousand men held in Le Vernet now. Communists, partisans, gypsies. They will need enormous camps if it goes on like that. Jewish prisoners, apparently, are being moved to other camps in the East. Even so, soon there won’t be any room left at all in any of these places.’

‘No one is coming back, Achille,’ Baillard said quietly.

Pujol stared at him. ‘What are you saying, Audric?’

‘Tuez-les tous . . .’

‘Kill them all,’ Pujol muttered. Infamous words said to have been spoken in Béziers at the beginning of a genocide against the Cathars of the Languedoc, more than seven hundred years ago. They, too, had been forced to wear scraps of yellow cloth pinned to their cloaks, their robes.

‘This is evil of a different order,’ Baillard said. ‘And why we must not fail.’

Pujol was silent for a few moments. ‘Do you want me to come with you, Audric?’

Baillard’s gentle face softened. ‘At the risk of offending you, Achille, I think we might make quicker progress alone.’

Pujol laughed. ‘When do you expect Pelletier?’

Baillard looked up at the dusk sky.

‘Dins d’abòrd,’ he said. Soon.

BELCAIRE

‘There are no trout in the stream.’

Raoul stood up, immediately alert, and gave the response. ‘My cousin says the fishing will improve when the melt waters begin.’

A pretty, dark-haired woman appeared in the opening between two trees and walked towards him. She was carrying a panier containing wild flowers and wore a pale blue summer dress with a pattern of tiny white blossoms on it. He thought how well it would suit Sandrine’s colouring, then smiled that he was even thinking such things at such a moment.

‘Monsieur Pelletier?’

‘Raoul,’ he said, shaking her outstretched hand.

‘I’m Eloise. I’m sorry I’m late. I was held up.’

‘Trouble?’

‘None. You?’

‘All quiet.’

Eloise nodded. ‘That’s how we like it.’

‘I’m grateful for your help. How long will it take to get there?’

‘Two hours, give or take. Monsieur Baillard arrived in Tarascon this afternoon. He’s going to meet you at the cave.’

‘OK.’

Raoul hauled his rucksack on to his shoulder. It was heavy now with tools borrowed from the outhouse in Coustaussa.

Eloise led him west along a network of lowland mountain paths, cross-country from Belcaire towards Tarascon. They didn’t speak much. From time to time they heard a car and took cover, waiting until it had passed before continuing on through the dark land of the Ariège. Raoul wanted to ask her about Sandrine. He’d attempted to quiz Geneviève earlier, but her loyalty to her friend meant she deflected all his questions.

‘Sandrine said your families have known each other all your lives,’ he said, hoping to draw Eloise out.

‘That’s right.’

‘She said she and Geneviève were particular friends, whereas you and Marianne were more the same age.’

‘Yes. We’re very distant cousins, in fact, on our mother’s side.’

‘Really?’

Raoul wanted to know what Sandrine had been like as a child, the sorts of things they’d done in the long summers in Coustaussa before the war. He wanted to know about Yves Rousset. When Sandrine had mentioned him, against all common sense he’d felt jealous.

‘Sandrine said that—’ he began.

‘Best we don’t talk, Monsieur Pelletier,’ Eloise said quietly but firmly, though Raoul thought he heard a flicker of amusement in her voice.

Codex XIV

GAUL

PIC DE VICDESSOS

AUGUST AD 342

Arinius screamed.

Scrambling to his feet, still holding his arms in front of him to keep the demons away. Striking the air with his hands in an attempt to drive out the images of skull and bone. Empty sockets and unfleshed limbs, the tendrils of skin trailing like weed.

Blood and fire and glass.

He fell to his knees, his head bowed and his eyes open, fighting to survive the horrors embracing him. A rushing of air, spirits, creatures, brushing against him, skimming his head and his legs, flying and sweeping, physically present but transparent also. Invisible.

‘Deliver us from evil . . .’

His heart was thudding, as if trying to force its way through the carapace of bone. His skin was slippery with sweat and the sour smell of fear. Lips automatically mouthing prayers, holy words of God to cast out the darkness of his thoughts.

‘Libera nos a malo,’ he repeated. ‘Amen,’ he cried, making the sign of the cross. ‘Amen.’

He was in the presence of something powerful, malevolent, though he did not know what.

‘Lord, save my soul.’

He continued to pray without ceasing until his throat was dry and his mind was exhausted. Using words as weapons to drive out the evil threatening to swallow him whole. Every prayer or incantation he had ever been taught, the word of God to ward off the temptations of the Devil.

Finally, just when his strength was extinguished and he could fight no more, Arinius felt the threat lift, like an animal slinking away to its lair. Gradually his pulse slowed. Gradually the sounds of the glade around him came back to his consciousness, birds and the light call of an owl, rather than the screaming and the agony of the voices inside his head.

Arinius sat back on his heels, felt the welcome support of the damp grass beneath his legs, the sweet texture of the earth under his hands. Then he laughed. A single shout. Like the great battles foretold in the books of Tobias and Enoch, the Armageddon promised by the Book of Revelation, Arinius knew he had been tested. Tested and not found wanting.

Exhausted, but with a lightness of spirit he had not felt for some days, he stood up. Carefully, he opened the cedarwood box and lifted the papyrus out. He stared at the seven verses, each of which told a story he could not read.

With the memory of the shadow of evil still upon him, he wondered. Had he been misguided? Was the Abbot right to order the destruction of such works? Did he know that the power contained with the Codex was simply too strong for men to bear? That these were words that would not save the world but destroy it?

For the first time in many weeks, Arinius felt the need of the comfort of the Christian offices. He prayed for guidance, kneeling on the hard ground while he tried to decide what he should do. Listening for the word of God in the silence. A moment of gnosis, of illumination. All doubt banished.

He made the sign of the cross, then stood up. There were two patches of damp on his knees, circles of dew. He was resolved. Comforted by his thoughts.

It was not his decision to make. He was no more than a messenger, a courier. Such a judgement was not in his hands. The knowledge should not be destroyed.

Arinius returned the Codex to the box, and the box to the bag. He had faith that others could withstand such an onslaught, as he himself had done. In the full and certain promise of the resurrection and the life to come.

He coughed, but this time there was no blood. He took a deep breath, drawing the fresh dawn air into his lungs, then continued on his way. The sky turned from white to a pale blue. Couzanium was many miles behind him. The Pic de Vicdessos was within reach. A lodestar, guiding him to his final destination at the edge of his known world.

Chapter 87

LOMBRIVES

AUGUST 1942

The sky was turning from white to a pale blue in the hour before dawn when Raoul saw a solitary figure making his way up the hillside.

Baillard was no longer wearing his pale suit. Instead, he was dressed in the open smock shirt and blue canvas trousers worn by the older men of the Tarasconnais villages, though his shock of white hair and his bearing were unmistakable.

Although there was no one about, Raoul didn’t reveal he was there, in case Baillard was being followed. He watched and waited in silence as Baillard made his way up the hillside with the steady pace of a man half his age.

‘Bonjorn, Sénher Pelletier.’

‘Monsieur Baillard.’

‘We have two hours before it will be properly light.’

Raoul nodded. ‘I’m ready.’

They were south of Tarascon, in the deep valleys that ran all the way down to Andorra. Raoul followed Baillard up through a gully on a gravel path, passing several small caves with irregular openings leading into dark tunnels beyond.

‘Do you have somewhere particular in mind, Monsieur Baillard?’

‘A place the locals call the Col de Pyrène.’

After ten minutes more, they reached a plateau. Baillard stopped. Raoul saw there was a distinctive ring of large boulders, natural protection, and a cluster of juniper bushes. Beyond that, woodland.

‘This is it?’ he said doubtfully.

Baillard gestured that he should follow. When they reached the summit, Raoul saw that there was in fact a narrow opening in the rock. Invisible from below, it looked as if it led nowhere. When he peered closer, he realised there was in fact a small gap between two spurs of rock.

‘Easy to describe.’

‘Exactly so. We have to rely on Sandrine to pass on the information without them realising she’s doing so. She needs to pinpoint the place, but without coordinates or any map reference.’

Raoul bent down and looked into the darkness.

‘It’s distinctive, Monsieur Baillard, but isn’t that a problem? It doesn’t seem likely that anything hidden here would remain concealed for long, let alone thousands of years. Local people must know this stretch of the mountains.’

‘You will see,’ was all Baillard said.

He produced a battery torch from his pocket. Raoul did the same and followed him, threading his way through the limestone chicane into a tunnel shielded from the world outside. The ground sloped down. Raoul was forced to duck his head. The further they went, the lower the temperature dropped, but the air was fresh.

After a few minutes, the tunnel opened out into a wide clearing about four metres across, with a high domed roof and jagged fissures of rock that seemed to sparkle.

Raoul sent the beam of his torch all around to gauge the space. ‘I’ve heard of the Tomb of Pyrène in Lombrives and the Salon Noir in Niaux, but nothing about this.’

‘The bons homes took refuge in these mountains,’ Baillard said. ‘There are hundreds of hidden places that do not appear in the tourist guidebooks, though one day no doubt they will.’ He walked to the centre of the cave, his torch sending elongated shadows dancing over the ground. ‘But it is this that interests us.’

Raoul looked and saw that there was a long, cylindrical shaft in the centre of the ground, like a bore hole.

‘It is natural or man-made?’

‘It’s a sink hole, a fissure widened by water dissolving the limestone. But the land has shifted. This one has been dry for millennia. If I am not mistaken, the site chosen by Arinius will have many of the same properties. A number of the caves in this stretch from here to the foot of the Pic de Vicdessos have cracks in the earth like this.’ Baillard angled the beam of light down into the spiralling darkness. ‘This is why it is right for our purposes. There is a narrow ledge, do you see? If you could make it a little wider, enough to hold this, that would be ideal?’

Baillard produced a small box from his pocket.

‘Is that a forgery too?’ Raoul asked.

‘Oh no,’ he said lightly. ‘It dates from the fourth century.’

Raoul wondered how Baillard could have acquired a Roman box in the space of twenty-four hours.

‘This is walnut wood, which was widely used in the Ariège in the past. I do not yet know if Arinius himself placed the Codex in such a box – in a box at all – but again it is a story that will serve our purposes for the time being.’

‘It’s amazing it’s survived all this time,’ Raoul said.

‘The temperature is constant and it is very dry. Many things do survive undisturbed, more than we realise.’ Baillard nodded. ‘Now, if you will, Sénher Pelletier, we must hurry.’

Raoul opened his rucksack and took out the tools Sandrine had given him from her father’s garden store. A hammer, a chisel and a wrench. He peered down into the shaft, seeing that it was narrow enough for him to be able to hold himself up with braced legs. Then he took a stone and dropped it into the darkness, counting until he heard it land at the bottom.

‘About ten metres,’ he said.

He sat on the side, then put his legs out, bending at the knees, and lowered himself into the space. The rock pressed hard into his shoulders, but it was relatively flat. He took the strain of his own weight in his upper back and his thighs.

‘OK,’ he said, reaching up his right hand. Baillard passed him the hammer and the chisel. ‘Thanks.’

Slowly, Raoul worked his way down the shaft, braced across the opening, until he was level with the ledge. He found a toehold for his left foot, then jammed his right leg and knee into the rock, leaving him enough space to manoeuvre. He started to chip away at the cavity above the ledge, enlarging the space little by little, until it was wide enough to hold the box.

‘Here you are.’

He tossed the tools up to Baillard, who caught them easily and put them aside.

‘Are you ready?’ he asked Raoul.

‘Yes.’

Baillard lay flat on the ground, holding out the box at full stretch into the hole. Raoul strained to reach up to take it.

‘A little further,’ he said. ‘I’ve almost got it.’

Baillard worked his way further forward on his stomach, spreading his legs for balance until Raoul’s fingers grasped it.

‘Got it,’ Raoul said.

He put the box inside the cavity, then scooped some of the dust and scree from the ledge and smeared it over the lid.

‘Is it done?’ Monsieur Baillard asked.

Raoul heard the urgency in his voice.

‘All done,’ he said.

He made it back to the surface more quickly than he had gone down. Raoul wiped his hands on his trousers, brushed the worst of the climb from his clothes, packed the tools back in the rucksack and stood up.

In silence, the two men made their way back along the tunnel, through the chicane of rock, towards the light. Raoul stopped in the entrance, half expecting to see a line of soldiers waiting for them, but the countryside was as still and quiet as before.

He sighed with relief. He struck a match and lit a cigarette.

‘Do you want me to secure the cave?’ he asked.

‘No. When Madomaisèla Sandrine talks about Antoine having found the Codex, she will imply that this is a new hiding place, one chosen by Antoine, rather than the original place. In truth, I think little will happen until Antoine Déjean’s funeral. Madomaisèla Eloise is already setting rumours running in Tarascon that something’s been found.’ He looked at Raoul. ‘You are willing to remain here and keep watch? You might be waiting some time.’

‘I’m as safe here as anywhere,’ he said. ‘How will I get a message to you when I need to?’

‘Madomaisèla Eloise will arrange for food and drink to be brought to you. Each afternoon at three, a messenger will wait for you at the crossroads on the Alliat road.’ He broke off and pointed to the crest above the plateau. ‘The password will be: “Cazaintre’s garden is overgrown.” Your response will be: “Monsieur Riquet is tending to it.”’

Raoul wondered if the choice of password was a coincidence or deliberate in some way. If not, how did Monsieur Baillard known he’d hidden from the police on Bastille Day in the Jardin du Calvaire, designed by Cazaintre, or that his home was on the Quai Riquet?

‘All right.’

Baillard looked at the sky. ‘My profound thanks, Sénher Pelletier. But now, if you will forgive me, I must leave you. I should be back before it gets much lighter and the town begins to wake.’

He turned to go.

Quickly, Raoul reached out and touched his arm. ‘Don’t let anything happen to her, Monsieur Baillard.’

Baillard stopped. ‘She told me to do the same for you,’ he said gently, ‘though Sandrine is more than capable of looking after herself. It is one of the reasons you can let yourself love her.’

‘Let myself?’ he echoed.

Baillard gave a soft smile. ‘There is always a choice,’ he said quietly. ‘You have chosen to try to live again, have you not?’

Raoul looked at him, trying to understand how the old man could see inside him so well.

‘Just keep her safe,’ he said. ‘Please.’

‘Si es atal es atal,’ he said. ‘A bientôt, Sénher Pelletier.’

Raoul watched as Baillard walked away down the hillside, waiting until he was out of sight. Then, with a cold fist of dread in his chest, he turned and climbed up into the woods above the cave to find somewhere to keep watch. All the time, Monsieur Baillard’s parting comment going round in his head like the half-remembered verse of a song.

The words gave him no comfort. He tried to reassure himself. At the moment, at least, Sandrine was with Marianne and Marieta and the others in Coustaussa. It was Saturday now, so four days until she was to go to Tarascon to put Monsieur Baillard’s plan into action.

‘What will be will be,’ he repeated.

Chapter 88

LE VERNET

Lucie looked out of place, pretty in powder and paint. She was wearing a tailored blue and white dress and jacket, with high-heeled blue shoes and matching handbag. She looked as if she should be listening to the Terminus Band at Païchérou. Sandrine felt shabby by comparison, in a flowered summer dress and sandals, her hair held off her face with a white ribbon.

The journey was long and frustrating. They drove south from Couiza to Quillan, then cross-country to Foix – where they left the car in a lock-up garage belonging to an old friend of Marieta’s – before boarding a train that stopped and started. There was no one checking papers, but there was no published timetable either, and they spent much of the morning travelling very short distances from branch line to branch line.

The closer they got to their destination, the more Sandrine perceived a heaviness, a brooding malevolence in the countryside around them, like a slumbering animal resting somewhere out of sight. Finally the train stopped. Sandrine saw the modest station house, a dull whitewash, and read the name LE VERNET on the side. Conifers and birch lined the road leading from the station into the village.

Lucie stood up. She looked purposeful, though Sandrine could see the strain in the lines around her eyes and the corners of her mouth.

‘Here we are,’ she said in a bright voice.

They disembarked into the flattening heat of midday. There was a pleasant breeze coming down from the mountains and the air was fragrant, fresh, which struck a false note. It seemed wrong, Sandrine thought, that the village should be beautiful and tranquil, given what she knew was hidden within the folds of the hills ahead.

A few other passengers got off too. Some were local, dressed in heavy mountain skirts with shawls knotted at the waist. An old man held a dead goose upside down, its glassy eyes seeming to fix on Sandrine. There were two men in black suits, lawyers Sandrine thought, or perhaps members of the military administration. They seemed to know where they were going.

Sandrine looked at the carriages that had been added at Foix. They were being uncoupled by the guard, but no one was getting out. Then she saw the blacked-out windows and realised there were prisoners inside. Remembering the bleeding faces and shackled hands of the men as they were forced into the carriages at Carcassonne, she glanced at Lucie. She looked anxious but hopeful, and the sight of her hardened Sandrine’s resolve. Whatever they achieved today, at least they were doing something. Something had to be better than nothing.

On the outskirts of the village, the man with the goose disappeared towards a series of modest houses and cottage gardens. The two countrywomen took a road to the right, which appeared to lead to a park a little further along the banks of the river Ariège.

The girls followed the lawyers. Sandrine overheard fragments of conversation, like morsels of bread dropped on the path. Something about a fire that had broken out in the Galerie Nationale du Jeu de Paume in Paris, destroying works by Picasso and Dalí.

‘All reappropriated,’ one of the men said. ‘Jewish art.’

Above the red roofs of the houses, the spire of a church was visible. Sandrine assumed that was the centre of the village.

‘We need to ask someone,’ she said. ‘No sense just wandering about.’

‘What about there?’ Lucie said, pointing at a café with a cheerful yellow and white awning.

It was gloomy inside the café. Three or four old men were standing at the bar, elbows propped on the zinc, drinking Pastis. There was a scattering of damp stubs of cigarettes already smoked on the bare earth floor at their feet. They looked up as Sandrine and Lucie walked in. One of them said something under his breath and the others laughed.

‘How about here?’ said Sandrine, choosing a table with a view of the street and as far away from the bar as possible. ‘This should do us all right.’

They sat in silence, Lucie holding her handbag neatly on her lap. Her joie de vivre had deserted her. Sandrine put her parcel on the stool beside her.

The waitress, with a mass of black hair and eyes the colour of coal, came out from behind the bar.

‘Señoritas, what can I get you?’

‘Do you have any wine?’ Sandrine asked.

‘Red only.’

‘That’s fine. Lucie, is that all right for you?’

‘Anything,’ she said. She stood up. ‘Is there a bathroom?’

The girl pointed to a door at the back of the café. ‘Across the courtyard, second door on the right.’

Lucie stood up and left.

‘Your friend got someone in there?’ the waitress said sympathetically.

‘In the camp?’ Sandrine looked at her in surprise. ‘How did you know?’

‘I’ve never seen you here before and your friend is all dressed up. That’s how they usually look.’

Sandrine glanced towards the door, checking Lucie was out of earshot, then back to the waitress.

‘We were hoping to see him.’

The girl raised her eyebrows. ‘You’ll be lucky, unless you have friends in the administration there. Or you have a pass to visit.’

Sandrine shook her head. ‘No.’ She looked at the girl. ‘You know how things work up there?’

She nodded. ‘I’ve been here five years.’

‘You’ve seen some changes.’

‘My grandfather remembers the camp being built in the summer of 1918. It was just barracks for French colonial troops. Then it was used for German and Austrian prisoners of war. When they’d all gone, it was empty for a bit, then it became a reception camp for International Brigade prisoners, fleeing Franco’s forces. That’s when I arrived, in 1938.’

‘And stayed.’

‘Family,’ she said, then shrugged. ‘They’ve been building new huts in all the sections over the past few months to house more and more prisoners. Even though they’re shipping the Jewish prisoners out as fast as they bring them in.’

‘Where are they being sent?’

‘Camps in the East, they say. Poland, Germany. Vichy is cooperating with Hitler to hand over all foreign Jews captured in the region.’

‘And if someone’s French?’

‘Technically, it’s only foreigners,’ said the girl, dropping her voice, ‘but everyone knows that Vichy has quotas to fill. It’s more of a transit camp.’

The girl stopped dead, clearly seeing the expression on Sandrine’s face.

‘Your friend is Jewish?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry, I should have thought before I rattled on.’

‘Better we know what the situation is,’ Sandrine said.

‘After the Armistice, everyone expected the Germans to take over the camp, but they didn’t. It’s still run by “our” police, though conditions are appalling. At least, conditions are bad in Section A and Section B – where the ordinary criminals are held – but in C section . . .’ She shrugged. ‘Even if you could get inside, I’m not sure it would do your friend much good to see it.’

‘Do you think there’s any chance we’ll be able to deliver a parcel in person?’

‘No, not unless you’ve got the right piece of paper from the authorities.’

‘Can we do that from here?’

‘Not a chance. It takes months. The Préfecture in Toulouse say it’s a matter for the Sûreté Nationale, the Sûreté claim it’s a matter for the military authorities, and they send you back to the Préfecture. Occasionally, someone fetches up at the Mairie here, hoping to try their luck.’

‘Are they successful?’

The waitress pulled a face. ‘Occasionally. The camp is under the jurisdiction of the Deuxième Bureau. Before the Armistice, it was at least possible to apply for a permit to visit. Now, it’s closed to everyone except military personnel, occasionally though, someone from the Red Cross gets in to see a particular prisoner or another.’

‘My friend has sent a letter but not heard anything back. She doesn’t know if it’s even been delivered.’

‘Technically there’s a delivery twice a week, parcels less frequently.’ The waitress shrugged. ‘It rather depends who’s on duty. Some are decent enough. Others take what they fancy and don’t pass mail on.’

Lucie emerged from the back of the café.

‘Anyway, I’ll get your order,’ the waitress said.

Lucie still looked pale, but there was a glint of determination in her blue eyes.

‘That’s more like it, nothing like a little war paint.’ She shrugged off her cropped jacket and sat down on the nearest stool, one leg crossed over the other.

Sandrine gave her an edited version of what the waitress had told her. Lucie sat jiggling her leg up and down. Sandrine felt the gaze of the men at the bar, disapproval visible in the stiff line of their shoulders.

‘Not used to female company,’ she said when the waitress returned.

‘Take no notice,’ the girl said. ‘It’s the closest any of them has been to a woman for quite some time, if you get my drift.’

She crooked her little finger. Sandrine laughed.

‘What are we going to do?’ asked Lucie, in a brittle voice. ‘Will you help us?’

‘Lucie,’ Sandrine said quickly.

‘It’s all right,’ the waitress replied, putting their drinks on the table. ‘If you give it to one of the guards, it’s possible the letter will get through.’

She rubbed her fingers together.

‘We have money,’ Lucie said, immediately rummaging in her bag.

‘I don’t know all of them, but there’s a sous-lieutenant who’s got a thing for blondes.’

‘Do you think it’s worth a try?’ Sandrine said.

‘Frankly?’

‘Yes, be honest.’

‘Not really. But you don’t have much of a choice, do you? You’ll not find anyone prepared to go up there.’

Lucie interrupted. ‘How do we get there?’

‘Walk,’ she said. ‘It’s not far. They just might accept a letter at the guardhouse if the pair of you turn up.’

Lucie stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and stood up. ‘I think it’s worth a try. We’ve come all this way.’

Sandrine stood up too. She had promised Marianne not to go further than the village, but she kept thinking of herself in the same position. If it had been Raoul in there and she was so close, she would do everything to get to see him.

The waitress stood in the doorway and pointed, giving them directions up a woodland track.

‘Well, obviously you can’t miss it.’

Lucie picked up the parcel from the stool, hooked her handbag over her shoulder, then looked down at her blue high heels.

‘I should have thought there might be walking,’ she said.

Sandrine laughed. The waitress grinned, plunged her hand into her apron pocket and fished out her order pad and pencil.

‘This is our telephone number here,’ she said, scribbling a note and handing the scrap of paper to Sandrine. ‘If you’re back this way, let me know.’

‘Café de la Paix,’ she read.

‘I know, my father-in-law’s idea. Renamed it in 1918, when he came home from the Front.’

Sandrine smiled. ‘Thank you. How much do we owe you?’

‘On the house.’

‘I can’t accept that.’

‘Next time, then you can pay. Good luck, compañeras,’ she said.

Chapter 89

It was lunchtime, so everything was quiet, no one about. From time to time, Sandrine picked up the sound of a car engine or lorry in the distance. The sound of the bells of the church in the square ringing one o’clock. For ten minutes or so they followed the track through the woods. Birdsong, robin and thrush, the occasional scurry of rabbits through the hard, dry undergrowth and the last of the fallen leaves.

Sandrine stopped. ‘Did you hear that?’

A harsh shouting, someone giving orders. Sandrine walked to the end of the track where it joined the road.

‘Dépechez-vous, vite. Allez.’

Some way ahead was a wide column of men, old and young, all carrying suitcases, blankets over their shoulders, brown cardboard boxes and old leather briefcases.

‘Poussez-vous,’ shouted one of the armed guards bringing up the rear.

‘The prisoners from the train,’ Sandrine said.

Lucie came up and stood beside her. As they watched, Sandrine saw an elderly, stooped man, near the back of the line, drop his luggage. He stopped, clearly struggling. The guard shouted. The old man raised his hand, asking for patience, for a few seconds of rest. The guard shouted again. Sandrine watched in disbelief as he drew back his arm and struck the old man across the face with a leather crop.

The vieux cried out, fell to his knees and began to sob. The desperate sound of it cut through Sandrine. She started forward.

‘There’s nothing you can do, kid,’ Lucie said quietly. ‘Don’t get involved.’

The guard raised his crop again. This time, a young man with black hair and a pale, drawn face stepped forward. Putting himself between the guard and his victim, he took the force of the blow on his own shoulders. Sandrine saw him flinch as pain reverberated through him, but he stayed on his feet. Then, without a word, he helped the old man up, picked up the battered suitcase and encouraged him to carry on along the dusty road.

Sandrine had a lump in her throat, at the pointless and deliberate humiliation of an old, defenceless man.

‘So that’s how it is,’ said Lucie.

From the look on her face, Sandrine knew she was thinking of Max and wondering what he’d endured.

The girls stepped out on to the road and slowly continued their approach to the camp. Sandrine started to hope they wouldn’t get past the gatehouse. Not better maybe, but certainly easier for Lucie. Max had only been at Le Vernet for a few weeks, but he was a gentle man, a musician. How would he have fared?

The sound of running feet broke into Sandrine’s reflections. She instinctively stepped out of sight again, pulling Lucie with her, into the silver shadow of a copse of birch trees.

‘Un-deux, un-deux.’

The guards’ coarse orders kept the troop in step, about thirty men in all. Each had his head shaved. Each carried a spade. All of them were in rags, clothes encrusted with dirt or grown tatty through constant wear. Some had slippers on their feet, others shoes with their toes sticking out of the end, some rubber galoshes over bare feet. The expression on their grey, filthy faces was of apathy and defeat. They looked like convicts.

‘One-two, one-two.’

The steady rhythm of the men’s feet echoed away up the hill, overtaking the column of prisoners.

‘What if,’ Lucie said in a quiet voice, ‘just by turning up we make it worse for Max?’

‘I don’t know.’ Sandrine wanted more than anything to turn back, but knew Lucie would never forgive herself if they did. Neither would she. ‘It can’t be much further.’

They walked for a few minutes more, then rounded a final bend in the road. Ahead of them was the camp. A wide central gate and a barrier with a guardhouse and sentry box to the side. Acres of barbed-wire fencing surrounded the enclosure, punctuated only by high search towers. Above the gate was a wooden sign: CAMP DU VERNET. Visible behind the chicane of barriers, three separate rows of wire separating the camp from the outside world, and the different sections from one another.

And behind the wires, wretched huddles of men, skin and bone, all with the same shaved heads and dull expressions as the chain gang that had passed them on the road.

Row after row of wooden huts with shallow pitched roofs, stretching endlessly into the distance like a hall of mirrors in a fairground. The huts were long and narrow, like animal shelters, and seemed to be built from plank, with some kind of waterproof covering in place of a roof. No windows that Sandrine could see, only rectangular spaces cut out of the planks to serve as crude shutters.

With every step closer they took, Sandrine expected a shot to ring out. She had to force herself not to pull her white handkerchief from her sleeve and wave it.

‘Here goes nothing,’ said Lucie.

Sandrine was astonished at how Lucie adopted a role. Patting her hair, exaggerating the sway of her hips as they covered the last few metres in the full glare of the soldiers and guards. One wolf-whistled, another called out to Lucie to blow him a kiss. She winked, encouraging a volley of catcalls and lewd suggestions as they walked up to the sentry box.

‘Are you lost, ladies?’ the guard said with a leer.

Lucie gave her dazzling smile. ‘Actually, we’re in the right place, Lieutenant. We’ve walked all the way from the village.’

His eyes ran over Sandrine, then back to Lucie.

‘And why’s that, mademoiselle?’

‘I have a parcel to deliver.’

The guard looked at her in disbelief, then at his colleague, and the two men laughed.

‘You can’t just walk up and deliver a package.’

Lucie’s blue eyes flared wide. ‘Well, isn’t that the ticket. We were on the train with two lawyers, Parisians. They said if I brought it in person, you were sure to take it in. That you were in a position to make a decision like that.’

The compliments dropped like pearls from Lucie’s lips.

‘I’m sure you do have the authority, Lieutenant,’ she said, tilting her head to one side. ‘It’s only a parcel and a letter. You can open it if you like, I wouldn’t mind. There’s nothing of a . . . personal nature, if you know what I mean.’

She winked again, and, despite the nerves in her stomach, Sandrine had to force herself not to smile as the soldier turned pink.

‘I wish I could help, mademoiselle. I would. But we’ve a new consignment of prisoners just arriving. Everyone’s busy. And visitors from Carcassonne expected any minute now.’

In the camp behind them, another guard shouted out. Sandrine didn’t hear what he said, but the young lieutenant turned from pink to red. Lucie, however, had heard. Sandrine saw embarrassment flicker in her eyes, quickly hidden.

‘Tell your friend that if he wants to come down here and put things to the test, I’m sure we can oblige.’ She leant forward and whispered to the lieutenant, ‘Though between you and me, kid, I don’t think he’s got it in him.’

For a moment, the boy behind the uniform was revealed. He laughed, embarrassed yet delighted. Then, as quickly as the moment had come, the smile fell from his face. He stood to attention.

Sandrine noticed that everyone was suddenly alert. She turned to see a black Citroën slowly picking its way through the potholes in the road.

‘The visitors from Carcassonne,’ she said under her breath.

The guard saluted as the car stopped at the gatehouse. The driver wound down his window. A pass was handed over for inspection. There was a single passenger in the back seat.

‘The Commandant is expecting us,’ the driver said.

The lieutenant nodded, and signalled to his colleague inside the sentry box to open the barrier, clapping his hands to hurry him up. Lucie and Sandrine stood back as the car purred forward. Then, abruptly, it braked. The guard ran after it and leant in through the driver’s window. A few words were exchanged, then he turned to look at the two women. The Citroën reversed back to them.

‘What’s going on?’ Lucie whispered.

‘I don’t know.’

The rear door opened and a man in a grey suit got out. Sandrine had no idea who it was, but she heard Lucie catch her breath.

‘Captain Authié,’ Lucie said, stepping forward. ‘This is a coincidence.’

Sandrine’s heart started to hammer in her chest. The man who’d promised to help Lucie, who’d been hunting her. The man who, if Marianne’s suspicions were right, was responsible for everything that had happened to Raoul. A very dangerous man.

‘Mademoiselle Ménard, it is something of a surprise to see you here.’

‘I am here to deliver a letter to my fiancé,’ Lucie said firmly.

‘I see.’ He turned to Sandrine. ‘And this is?’

She held out her hand, not seeing that she could do anything else.

‘Sandrine Vidal,’ she said, meeting his gaze.

He barely reacted, though she saw sharp interest in his eyes. ‘That is rather more of a coincidence.’

Sandrine did her best to smile. ‘It is?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m sure Mademoiselle Ménard and your sister have told you what efforts I’ve made to talk to you in Carcassonne. Now here you are.’

‘You promised to help,’ Lucie said.

‘I am here, Mademoiselle Ménard.’

‘So you hadn’t forgotten?’ she said, relief and hope flooding her voice. ‘Well, since we are here, is it at all possible you could arrange for me to see him? I would be so grateful, Captain Authié.’

‘Or at least ensure that Mademoiselle Ménard’s parcel reaches Monsieur Blum?’ Sandrine put in.

She felt his cool grey eyes slide over her. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said. ‘If you ladies would care to accompany me.’

Lucie didn’t hesitate, climbing into the back seat of the car. Sandrine didn’t move, not sure what to do. Warning bells were ringing in her head, but she couldn’t see she had a choice.

‘Mademoiselle Vidal,’ said Authié, holding open the door for her.

It sounded like an order. Sandrine felt her insides turn to water. She didn’t know how to avoid getting in the car without provoking Authié’s suspicions. She paused, then climbed in beside Lucie.

Authié slammed the door, got into the front and the driver started the car. They drove forward into Le Vernet. The metal gates clattered shut behind them.

Chapter 90

In the centre of the camp was a large open space where hundreds of men with shaven heads were working the dust-dry ground, each with a pickaxe or a shovel. Most were stripped to the waist, shoulders red in the fierce sun. All around the periphery, the same sullen gardes mobiles and police flicking at their boots with their leather crops. The prisoners worked in silence.

Lucie was chattering to Captain Authié, expending her energy on being charming. She wasn’t talking about Max, but rather asking Authié about himself. What was his position, what had he done before the war? Authié listened and responded pleasantly enough. Sandrine didn’t know if it was an act or if Lucie did trust him, despite everything, but she felt her nails digging into her palms. She was terrified Lucie might let out where they had come from, even though she had stressed and stressed again the importance of being discreet. She prayed she wouldn’t get carried away and say too much.

‘It sounds quite a journey,’ Authié was saying. ‘I hope this fiancé of yours appreciates the effort you have gone to on his behalf.’

‘He will,’ said Lucie. ‘And he’ll be grateful for your help.’

They stopped at a tidy brick structure with two windows either side of the door, clearly an administrative building. The two guards stood to attention. The driver opened the door for Authié and followed him into the building, leaving Lucie and Sandrine sitting in the back of the car.

‘What an extraordinary piece of luck,’ Lucie said.

‘It might be,’ Sandrine said in a low voice, ‘but be careful. I don’t believe for a moment that Max is the reason Captain Authié is here.’

‘Neither do I,’ Lucie said, ‘but it’s the best piece of luck all the same.’

They continued to wait. The door of the office remained closed. The air rang with the sound of pickaxes striking the stony and parched land, the oppressive huts stretching out as far as she could see, and everywhere the endless barbed wire, three layers thick, with trenches in between, furrows of dried brown dirt. Hell on earth was how Raoul had described the camps at Rivesaltes and Argelès. Until now, Sandrine had thought he was exaggerating.

‘I need some air,’ she said, opening the door and getting out of the car.

She stood beside the Citroën, looking around. Behind the administrative block stood a patient, silent line of men with luggage, blankets and coats, the prisoners from the train, she realised. Despite the ferocious sun, Sandrine wrapped her arms around herself, to protect herself from the chill seeping into her bones.

Lucie also got out of the car. She was very pale again and Sandrine hoped she wasn’t going to be sick. Finally, when Sandrine had started to give up on anything happening, the door opened and a soldier beckoned them inside.

‘This is it,’ Lucie whispered. Sandrine squeezed her hand, but didn’t answer.

They followed him up the steps and into a bare office with a wooden desk, two metal filing cabinets and three chairs. Authié was sitting in one, though he got up as the girls entered. On the far side of the desk, a heavy-set man in uniform remained in his seat. On the wall behind him was a large paper map of the camp, the various sections marked in different-coloured ink.

‘I’ve been explaining your situation to the Commandant,’ Authié said, ‘and although it is irregular – you shouldn’t be here at all – he has kindly agreed to make an exception on this occasion. He will allow you, Mademoiselle Ménard, to see Blum for five minutes. They are going to fetch him now.’

Lucie’s blue eyes shone with gratitude. ‘Captain Authié, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.’

‘It is not me you should be thanking,’ Authié said, smiling at the Commandant. ‘It is under the condition that I sit in on the interview. I hope that will not be too uncomfortable for you.’

‘If the Commandant thinks it necessary,’ Lucie replied, ‘then of course you must.’

‘Standard practice,’ the Commandant said. ‘In these “exceptional” circumstances Captain Authié has mentioned.’

The telephone rang. The Commandant stretched forward. ‘Yes?’ He nodded. ‘Yes, good.’ He dropped the receiver back in its cradle. ‘Blum is here. Next door.’

‘Thank you,’ Authié said, standing up. ‘Mademoiselle Vidal, if you might be so good as to wait in the car. We don’t wish to cause the Commandant any more inconvenience than is strictly necessary.’

There was a knock on the door and a police officer came into the room and saluted.

The Commandant pushed himself out of his chair. ‘Over to you, Authié. Five minutes, no more.’

‘Mademoiselle Ménard?’ Authié said, opening the door for Lucie to go through.

Lucie looked vulnerable. Sandrine smiled at her, trying to give her courage, watching until she was out of sight. Then, she went back outside, as she’d been asked to do.

Certain she would go mad if she had to wait in the confined atmosphere of the car – there was something claustrophobic about the smell of the overheated leather and the lingering scent of old tobacco – she stood beside the open door.

The driver was half leaning, half sitting on the bonnet. He pulled a cigarette from a packet in his pocket. Sandrine heard the scratch of the match, then a sigh as he exhaled. A white trail of smoke drifted in her direction.

Although she was worried about how Lucie might be holding up, Sandrine was grateful for time to marshal her thoughts. Monsieur Baillard’s plan was to set a rumour running, then for her to talk about the forged Codex at Antoine’s funeral. His reasoning was that if Antoine’s murderers weren’t in Tarascon already, they were likely to turn up for the funeral. Authié certainly – the man Raoul knew as Leo Coursan – as well as others. If there were others. Monsieur Baillard clearly believed that at least two rival groups were seeking the Codex.

Now here, at Le Vernet, was an unexpected opportunity to set her part of the plan in motion four days early. Sandrine frowned. If Raoul and Monsieur Baillard had hidden the forgery already, as planned – and she could get a message to them to let them know to be on their guard immediately – then all would be well.

But if there had been a hitch? She knew, via Geneviève, that Eloise had delivered Raoul safely to the rendezvous. But what if Monsieur Baillard hadn’t arrived? Or if the site they’d chosen turned out not to be suitable after all?

Sandrine glanced towards the gatehouse. Did she really have a choice, though? Authié was going to ask her questions, she couldn’t avoid that. If she appeared to be ignorant of the Codex now, yet full of information by Wednesday, the whole plan would look suspicious and start to fall to pieces.

Wishing Marianne was here to advise her, Sandrine stood by the car, trying to work out what she should do. She also wondered why Authié had really come to Le Vernet in the first place. And what, exactly, was his job?

The driver lit a second cigarette, this time offering the packet to her. Sandrine shook her head. The echo of metal striking the unforgiving earth continued to reverberate around the camp. The sun continued blasting down upon the bare heads of the prisoners. Suddenly the door flew open and a young officer she’d not seen before appeared on the steps of the gatehouse.

‘Captain Authié wants you, Mademoiselle Vidal,’ he called. ‘There’s been an incident. Come quickly.’

Chapter 91

Sandrine’s stomach lurched. ‘What’s happened? Where’s Mademoiselle Ménard, is she all right?’

She blinked, accustoming her eyes to the gloom after the brightness of the day outside, then followed the guard down a corridor to a small interview room. Lucie was sitting on a chair in the centre of the room, holding a handkerchief to her face. Her blue and white dress was stained down the front with splashes of blood.

‘Oh God,’ said Sandrine, crouching beside her. ‘What happened?’

‘It’s nothing. I’m all right.’

Sandrine turned on the guard. ‘What happened?’ she demanded. ‘Where’s Captain Authié? Where’s Max?’

The young officer looked embarrassed, but didn’t answer. Sandrine turned back to Lucie.

‘Tell me what happened,’ she repeated, dropping her voice. ‘Did you see Max?’

Lucie nodded. ‘They’ve taken him back.’

‘Is he all right?’

A wail came from behind the handkerchief. ‘I hardly recognised him, he’s so thin, and his glasses – they won’t let him have his glasses – and I, well I just lost my head.’

Sandrine put her hand on Lucie’s leg. ‘I don’t understand. Where is Captain Authié?’

‘He’s so thin, so pale. His eyes are hollow.’ She stopped. ‘He couldn’t believe it, though, Sandrine. He couldn’t believe I’d come. His face, when he saw it was me, I . . .’ She broke off. ‘I know you don’t like him, Sandrine, but Captain Authié was pretty decent. He was called away, or pretended to be, and left us on our own for a while.’

‘So did you tell him?’ Sandrine said quietly. ‘Did you manage to tell him your news?’

For a moment a smile lit Lucie’s face. ‘You should have seen him, Sandrine, when he understood. He was so happy.’ The smile began to fade. ‘Happy at first, then . . .’

‘How did this happen?’ asked Sandrine, pointing at the handkerchief.

‘Stupid. I was stupid,’ said Lucie. ‘When the guard came back to take Max away, I’m afraid I flew at him. Tried to stop them.’

‘The guard hit you?’ said Sandrine in disbelief.

‘No, he pushed me, I lost my footing. Banged into the door.’

‘Oh Lucie.’ Sandrine looked towards the open door. ‘And where’s Captain Authié now?’

‘Trying to smooth things over with the Commandant.’ Lucie shook her head. A single drop of blood dripped from her nose on to her lap, a starburst on the skirt of her dress. Sandrine saw her shoulders slump a little more. ‘I’ve made things worse for Max, haven’t I?’

She squeezed Lucie’s arm. ‘I’m sure you haven’t.’

‘What do you think will happen now?’

The sound of a siren suddenly split the air, making both girls jump.

‘What’s that?’ Sandrine said, glancing at the guard.

‘Roll call. Four times a day. Make sure everyone’s where they’re supposed to be.’

‘Where else are they likely to be?’ Sandrine muttered, then broke off at the sound of Authié’s voice.

‘Mademoiselle Vidal, if I may have a moment of your time.’

To her surprise, he took her elbow and steered her into the corridor.

‘Your friend’s behaviour was remarkably ill judged . . .’ he said.

‘I appreciate that,’ Sandrine began.

He kept talking over her. ‘. . . and it certainly won’t help Monsieur Blum. The Commandant has absolute power here, do you understand? He only allowed Mademoiselle Ménard to see her fiancé – although I gather there is some doubt about her status – as a personal favour to me. He had no obligation to do so.’

‘Lucie is aware of that,’ Sandrine said. ‘She was upset, but deeply regrets causing you personal embarrassment.’

‘Does she?’

For a moment, they held one another’s gaze. Sandrine forced herself not to look away. He was dangerous, she knew that. But, for whatever reason, he had helped. Sandrine felt the full force of his character, realising how Raoul had once been prepared to follow him and why Lucie had wanted to put her trust in him.

‘What can we do to alleviate the situation, Captain Authié?’

‘I have dealt with it,’ he replied.

‘Will it make things worse for Monsieur Blum?’

‘I regret that is not something over which I have any influence.’

Again, for a moment, Sandrine thought she saw the mask slip. Something in his voice suggested that he felt the injustice of what was happening here in the camp. An awareness of the barbarity of the place.

‘Most of these men here,’ she said, ‘have they even done anything wrong?’

Authié’s expression altered. Sandrine willed him to say something, to speak beyond his position or responsibilities or the chill air of the corridor, but he did not.

‘Shall we?’ he said.

Sandrine helped Lucie to her feet, then walked down the corridor and out down the steps.

In silence, they got into the car. Authié sat with his driver in the front, a different man in a lieutenant’s uniform. Sandrine and Lucie sat close together in the back.

As they drove through the camp to the gate, Sandrine saw rows of prisoners gathering under the burning sun, men as thin as sticks, standing and looking straight ahead. The guards’ voices were harsh as they shouted the roll call.

She couldn’t help herself twisting round as they pulled out of the gate and on to the road to the village, watching the camp get smaller and smaller behind her. Then they turned the bend, and Le Vernet disappeared from view.

Chapter 92

Lucie looked utterly dazed. Sandrine sat back on the bench seat and squeezed her hand.

‘Are you all right?’ she mouthed.

‘Not so bad,’ Lucie said.

‘I regret I am not returning to Carcassonne,’ Authié said, turning round from the front. ‘Assuming that’s where you have come from?’

Sandrine felt relief wash through her. ‘We’ll be fine,’ she said, ducking the question. ‘If you could drop us in the village, we’ll make our own way from there.’

Lucie had finished her running repairs to her face, lipstick and a dab of powder, and was now smoking.

‘You came to Le Vernet by train?’

Sandrine met his eye. ‘We did, yes.’

‘From Carcassonne?’

‘I told Captain Authié you had been staying out of town,’ Lucie said quickly.

‘Surely not here in Le Vernet?’

‘No, of course not,’ she said, desperately trying to decide what to say for the best.

In the mirror, she saw he was staring at her.

‘Where have you been, Mademoiselle Vidal? I have called on you at home in Carcassonne several times in the past week without finding you at home.’

‘I’ve been in Tarascon,’ she said, unable to think of anything better.

His eyebrows went up. ‘A charming place, but not somewhere I would imagine could hold many attractions. The sort of place which attracts partisans and those determined to cause trouble.’

‘Really, I didn’t know that,’ she said. ‘It seems pleasant.’

‘However, now I have found you,’ he continued, ‘I might take the opportunity of asking a few questions. You don’t object, I assume?’

‘No, no of course I don’t,’ she said.

Her eyes slid to Authié’s driver, who was clearly following every word. She frowned. There was something familiar about him, though she couldn’t think where they might have met.

‘. . . in your own words, Mademoiselle Vidal, if you would,’ Authié was saying.

Sandrine forced her attention back to him. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Monday the thirteenth of July,’ he said in a level voice. ‘You were attacked at the river in Carcassonne. Near Païchérou.’

Sandrine’s mouth was dry. She glanced at Lucie. Hoping her friend hadn’t given Authié more information than she’d owned up to.

‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘I went to the police station. Someone took my statement.’

‘It’s always better to hear it in your own words, Mademoiselle Vidal,’ he said.

For the next few minutes, the questions went back and forwards. Polite and courteous, there was nonetheless an undercurrent to everything Authié asked, and Sandrine was exhausted by the effort of saying enough, but not too much. By the effort of working out how to slip into the conversation the information Monsieur Baillard wanted shared.

‘He said nothing to you, the man you helped?’

‘Nothing that made any sense,’ she said, keeping her voice as casual as possible. ‘I mean, he rambled on and on, but it was all nonsense. I didn’t pay much attention.’

‘Try to recollect, Mademoiselle Vidal,’ said Authié. ‘What kind of things?’

Authié turned round in his seat. He pulled out a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offered one first to Lucie, who accepted, then to Sandrine. She shook her head. The moment had come.

‘Something about a book, I think it was – though that wasn’t the word he used.’ She pretended to think. ‘Codex, that was it. Yes, something about finding it and how it was valuable, very valuable.’

‘Did this man say he had seen this Codex?’

Authié’s voice was still calm, controlled, but Sandrine could hear the keen interrogation behind the words.

‘I think so, yes. He said it was hidden and it was safe, but I didn’t take much notice. I was more concerned about finding help. I was rather scared, to tell you the truth.’

‘Did he mention a key?’

‘A key?’ she blurted the word out. ‘No.’

‘Or a particular place?’

‘Something to do with Pyrène,’ she said slowly. ‘The Col de Pyrène, I think it was?’

‘Do you know the place, Mademoiselle Vidal?’

‘No.’

Authié narrowed his eyes. ‘Yet you remember the name?’

‘Only because he said it so many times,’ she said quickly. ‘He kept describing it. A place with a rock that looked as if it was covered with glass, or something like that. But maybe I misunderstood.’ She gave another shrug. ‘He was in such a state, Captain Authié, I’m afraid I wasn’t really paying attention. He’d had some kind of accident, you see. As I said, it all sounded like nonsense.’

Authié fixed her with a long, hard look. Sandrine worried she’d overdone it, made herself seem too gullible or naïve, too incurious. A frisson of fear went down her spine. Her fingers gripped the side of her seat.

‘But then,’ she rushed on, ‘I slipped on the rocks and, like an idiot, banged my head. And in fact the man can’t have been so badly hurt as I thought, because when I came round, he was gone.’

‘You are quite sure – quite sure – you saw no one else at the river?’

Sandrine met his gaze. ‘Quite sure.’

‘You don’t remember someone helping you?’

‘Well, yes. Lucie and Max,’ she said. The nerves were thudding louder and harder in her chest. ‘It was awfully lucky they were there, otherwise I don’t know what would have happened.’

‘Before that,’ he said with a touch of steel in his voice.

‘No,’ she lied.

Lucie took her lead from Sandrine. ‘We looked, but there was nobody there.’ She pulled a face. ‘I’m afraid we thought you were making it up, you know.’

‘I know,’ Sandrine said, throwing a grateful smile at Lucie. ‘I must have sounded quite mad.’ She turned back to Authié. ‘I’m sorry not to be of more help.’

He didn’t reply. In the mirror, Sandrine saw him exchange a glance with the driver. The car slowed for a moment. Sandrine’s heart skipped a beat, suddenly anxious that they were going to be left in the middle of nowhere at the side of the road. Then, she realised, that might be better. Now she’d done what she had to do, she was desperate to be out of Authié’s company. She also had to get a message to Monsieur Baillard to let him know the plan was already in motion.

The car idled for a moment at the junction. Authié leant over and talked in an undertone to the driver. Then, instead of turning towards Le Vernet, they instead pulled out on to the main road that led towards Tarascon. A flash of alarm went through her.

‘You were going to drop us at the railway station,’ she said quickly. ‘There is a train due at the end of the afternoon.’

‘It’s such an unreliable line, Mademoiselle Vidal. I am more than happy to take you back to Tarascon.’

‘Tarascon?’

‘You said you were staying there,’ he said.

‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble,’ she said, immediately trying to work out how they would be able to get back to Foix where the car was hidden.

‘It’s no trouble. We are going that way anyway,’ he said. A few more seconds of silence fell between them. ‘I wonder, is your presence in Tarascon related in any way to this matter, Mademoiselle Vidal?’

Sandrine muddled her expression. ‘Is there a connection? I am simply accompanying our housekeeper to visit old friends. She’s rather unwell and can’t travel on her own.’

‘Most people don’t choose to travel these days unless necessary.’

‘Marieta isn’t most people,’ she replied, forcing another smile.

Authié’s face was inscrutable. ‘I shall need an address where you’re staying,’ he said.

‘Of course,’ Sandrine said brightly, wondering what the hell she was going to do when they arrived in Tarascon in an hour’s time.

Chapter 93

TARASCON

‘We’re here,’ Sandrine whispered. Her stomach was a knot of nerves.

‘Wake up.’

Lucie’s halo of blonde hair bobbed away from the glass. She jumped at the sound of Sandrine’s voice, then quickly sat up straight.

‘Where are you staying, Mademoiselle Vidal?’

Sandrine stared at him, then, at the last moment, remembered the name of a hotel in the town.

‘We’re staying at the Grand Hôtel de la Poste,’ she said, ‘but actually I promised I would meet a friend in the Café Bernadac at the end of the afternoon. Thanks to you, Captain Authié, we’ve made good time. If you could let us out here, we can walk to the centre of town.’

‘You are staying there too, Mademoiselle Ménard?’

Sandrine glanced at her friend, worried that she might give the game away. Lucie gathered her thoughts and said the right thing.

‘I am. Just for tonight.’

‘You are both returning to Carcassonne tomorrow?’

‘I am,’ Lucie lied. ‘I can’t answer for Sandrine.’

The girls exchanged glances when the car didn’t stop. Sandrine leant forward and touched Authié on the shoulder.

‘Really, we can walk from here.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of leaving you in this heat.’

‘If you’re sure,’ she said, struggling to keep the growing anxiety from her voice. ‘It’s in the Place de la Samaritaine.’

‘Do you know it, Laval?’

Sandrine turned cold. Sylvère Laval was the man who’d planted the bomb, who’d set Raoul up. Her eyes shot up and met his in the driving mirror. With a stab of fear, she knew he’d noticed her reaction to his name.

‘You’ve been so kind, Captain Authié,’ she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. Her heart was thumping in her chest. Sandrine told herself to calm down. Everything had gone to plan, if ahead of time. She had to hold her nerve, not give herself away now.

Laval negotiated the narrow streets, then drove into the main square and pulled up outside the shadowed colonnades of Les Halles. Sandrine’s fingers were on the door handle and she was out of the car looking across to the awning of the café on the far side of the square. Behind the buildings, the boucherie and the tabac on the corner, the rise and fall of the Vicdessos and the Pic de Sédour were visible. Castles floating in the sky, she thought.

Authié also got out and looked at the tables outside the café.

‘Do you see your friend, Mademoiselle Vidal?’

Sandrine pretended to look. She shook her head. ‘Not yet, but, as I said, I’m awfully early. You don’t need to wait with us. We’ll be quite all right.’

She saw him hesitate. ‘When will you and your housekeeper be returning to Carcassonne, Mademoiselle Vidal? You didn’t say.’

‘After the weekend,’ she replied. ‘On Monday or Tuesday. It depends on the trains, of course.’ She held out her hand. ‘You’ve been more than kind, Captain Authié.’

He did not take it, but instead turned to Lucie. ‘And you, Mademoiselle Ménard?’

‘I told you,’ she said in a tired voice. ‘Tomorrow.’

‘So you did.’

Sandrine glanced at her. Under her powder, she looked grey and drawn, as if she might faint. There were beads of sweat on her forehead.

‘Come on, Lucie,’ she said softly. ‘Let’s find a seat.’

Still Authié didn’t go. Sandrine could do nothing but sit down at the nearest table and pray that he wouldn’t join them. He stood in front of her, blocking the sun. Then, to her relief, she saw Eloise Saint-Loup on the far side of the square.

‘There she is,’ she said, raising her hand to attract Eloise’s attention. ‘Eloise, over here.’

She saw Eloise take in the little group and immediately change direction and walk towards them. Sandrine leapt up and ran to meet her, talking in a loud, excited voice.

‘Thanks to Captain Authié, we are early to meet you here. I said you wouldn’t expect us yet.’ She turned to him. ‘Again, thank you for driving us back.’

Authié ran his eyes over Eloise. ‘And you are?’

‘Eloise Saint-Loup,’ she replied, meeting his gaze.

Authié glanced at his watch, then nodded to Laval.

‘If I need to talk to you again, Mademoiselle Vidal, I’ll call on you in Carcassonne.’

‘If you think it necessary,’ she said.

Authié gave a cursory bow, then got back into the car. Laval shut the door, then climbed in himself and they left.

Sandrine stood until they’d disappeared around the corner of the square, then she whistled and slumped down on the chair. Her legs were shaking.

‘That was the longest few hours of my life,’ she said.

‘What was that all about?’ Eloise asked. ‘I wasn’t expecting you until Wednesday.’

Sandrine explained what had happened.

‘Which is why it was so lucky you came along when you did,’ she finished. ‘I was dreading Captain Authié would insist on escorting me to the hotel and ask to see the register.’ She sighed. ‘And his driver, Sylvère Laval, do you know him?’

‘I don’t think so, why?’

Sandrine shrugged. ‘I don’t know, he seemed to be looking at you. It’s probably nothing.’ She glanced at Lucie, who was looking more wrung out than ever. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’ve felt better, kid.’

‘It’s not surprising, it really is dreadfully hot,’ Sandrine heard herself saying. ‘You could do with a rest.’ She stopped, then smiled at the realisation she was sounding more like Marianne every day.

‘Our car is in Foix,’ she said to Eloise. ‘But before I think about how to get it back, I have to find Monsieur Baillard and tell him what’s happened. It’s terribly important. It’s all so much earlier than we’d planned.’

‘He’s staying with Inspector Pujol,’ Eloise said. ‘I’ll take you, if you like.’

‘Is anyone else with him?’ Sandrine said, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Eloise smiled. ‘No,’ she said sympathetically. ‘Raoul stayed up at the site to keep watch. He’s fine. Everything went like clockwork. My husband’s acting as the messenger between him and Monsieur Baillard.’

Only now did Sandrine know for certain that Raoul had made it to Tarascon without being caught. That he was safe.

‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.

‘He seems nice,’ Eloise said. ‘Mind you, he asked an awful lot of questions.’

Sandrine looked at her. ‘Questions about what?’

Eloise laughed. ‘What do you think? About you, of course.’

Codex XV

GAUL

PIC DE VICDESSOS

AUGUST AD 342

Arinius felt he had reached the edge of the world, the heart of the mountains dividing Gaul from Hispania. For three days he had walked. He had no particular destination in mind, only that he had to find somewhere distinctive and sheltered, somewhere where the pattern of the ridges and crests might retain their shape for centuries to come. He had rejected a hiding place in the woods lower down the slopes. Forests might be cut down or burnt or drowned when a river burst its banks. Fire and sword and flood. Only the mountains stood firm.

He stopped to catch his breath before continuing. The last rays of the sun were slipping from the rock and sinking down behind the peaks. Arinius wondered if he should stop and continue in the morning, but he did not want to rest. It was the third day since he had been tested – his vision, as he had come to think of it – but he was still full of vigour. He was so close now.

The path was dry and slippery with dust and the foothills were steeper than he had hoped. It was hard going, but he had coughed little in the past days and there was a welcome breeze. He was weary of his mission, the responsibility, but he knew he was almost there. So very close now.

Finally, up ahead, he saw a sequence of caves, each facing west across the valley and set within the pines and oak, the deep ancient green of the forest. He climbed higher until he found what he needed. A single cave, set within a low range of rock and crevice. He smiled as he looked up at the natural sequence of dolmen and stelae, the way the light fell upon the mountain, casting the sign of the cross on the rock face.

‘In hoc signo vinces,’ he said.

He did not know if the Emperor Constantine had indeed uttered such words, as it was said, only that the symbol – the cross – that once had indicated persecution and exile had now come to symbolise strength. Even before the burning of ancient texts had begun, Arinius had feared the way in which the Church was changing. From persecuted sect to persecutor. He did not wish to see the restrictions and indignities once suffered by Christians – by good men and women, like his mother Servilia – turned instead on others. He did not wish to witness Jewish friends abused, wise men from the old tribes. His God preached peace and acceptance and love to all men, but yet he saw already how the plain and gentle words of scripture were being turned into weapons. Manipulated to suit the desires of those seeking power, rather than grace.

Arinius continued to climb. Now he was closer, he could see that the shadow cast by the scattered pink light was not merely a cross, but rather a double crucifix. A horizontal and a vertical line, with a second shorter horizontal arm beneath the first. He wondered how often was this phenomenon to be seen? At dusk only? In August only, or all summer long? Or was the configuration of land and wood and light so constant that, regardless of the season, the sun cast such a shadow on the mountains?

He passed a clump of juniper bushes at the edge of the path, then made his way through an avenue of oak trees. Through the thicket and heavy undergrowth, until at last he stood on the plateau in front of the crucifix cave, as he had come to think of it. Arinius took a few moments to catch his breath. His fingers stole to the plain knot pin at his neck, a replacement for his mother’s brooch, lost when he had fallen on his way back from Aquis Calidis.

This close, the light fell differently, so the outline of the cross was no longer so clear. Instead, a slanted pattern of dark lines, intersected as if painted by the hair of a brush. The sky was slashed through with shards of pink and orange now, lilac behind it. The white wisps of cloud were melting into the grey rock face on the opposite side of the valley, gold in the setting sun.

Arinius looked back at the avenue of oak trees, at the ash and the beech, then up at the ring of stones seeming to frame the entrance to the cave, and knew it was perfect. It was a place that would serve.

‘A place of refuge,’ he said.

His weariness left him. He crouched on the ground and removed the bearing block, spindle and fireboard from his leather sack, all carried with him from Carcaso. He’d inherited his quick fingers from his mother, who, in the nine years he had walked beside her, had taught him a great deal. He pulled out his tinder bundle, a mixture of grass and dried hazel bark, and placed it in position ready to catch the embers created by the friction. Placing the tip of the spindle into the hole in the block, he wrapped the string around it, taut, so as to make sure it didn’t slip. He put his right knee on the ground, with his left foot on the board to keep it in place, then, pushing down with the handhold, began to turn the spindle. Twisting, faster, feeling the heat begin to warm his hands. Arinius still felt the strain of the muscles in his thighs, across his shoulders, but the pain did not hinder him. He kept going, building a steady and regular rhythm, needing to create a constant friction between the fireboard and the spindle. In the indentation in the fireboard, the dust was collecting. Finally, a glow, then a spark, and the smallest of flames.

Arinius blew upon it, the heat catching the dry tinder. It flared up. He began to cough, ash and dust sticking in his throat, but the light mountain wind helped him. Moments later, he was rewarded by the red glow leaping and starting to spread.

He sat back on his heels to rest his aching limbs for a moment, then he went back to work. He took the small torch from his sack, an old rag soaked in pitch, and wrapped it around a short wooden stick like a fist. He held it towards the fire. The material spluttered, then the rag began to smoke, then spark. The fire took hold.

He stood up. He took a last look at the beauty of the sky, here at the top of the world then, with the cedarwood box containing the Codex safe in the bag on his back, he turned and stepped into the darkness of the cave.

Holding the burning torch before him in his right hand, his left touching the wall of the cave to guide him, Arinius walked slowly forward. The ground sloped down and the passage grew narrower and narrower until he was forced to duck his head. He felt the chill of earth and the temperature dropped with each step he took, but the air was fresh. He knew that he was in no danger.

Presently, the passage opened into a small cavern. The flame sent shapes scattering over the uneven surface of the walls and ceiling, shadow dancers in the subterranean world. He stood still for a moment, then noticed an opening ahead of him in the ground. He went carefully forward and saw that it was a natural well, a tunnel down into the centre of the earth, no wider than the reach of his arm. He dropped a stone into the darkness, listening as it fell. Moments later, an echo reverberated around the cavern. A dry well, not water. This would serve his purpose.

In order to free his hands, Arinius collected a few larger rocks, stacked them in a small pyramid shape and wedged the wooden shaft of the torch into the gap. Once he was certain it was secure, he went back to the opening in the earth and knelt down beside it. He reached down into the hole, his fingers looking for somewhere to secure the box. There was nothing wide enough, so he lay down, chest down, and stretched further into the black. Now he found what he needed – a cleft in the stone large enough to hold the box on its side.

He pulled himself up, then took the box from his bag and rested it in his lap. The temptation to look upon the Codex one last time was overwhelming. But he was mindful of what had happened, the test he had barely survived, so instead he raised the box to his mouth and kissed it, then wrapped the cedarwood in his handkerchief. He did not know if a layer of cotton would make any difference, but he wanted to do all he could to protect the Codex from the passing of time.

Lying on his belly, Arinius reached down into the chasm until his searching fingers found the cleft. Slowly, taking care not to make any mistakes, he pushed the box into the fissure as far back as he could manage, checking several times that it was secure, that it could not dislodge or fall.

When he’d finished, he sat up. Rather than feeling pride or satisfaction in the fact that he had achieved what he had set out to do, Arinius felt bereft. As if he was leaving the truest part of himself behind in the cave. A limb, a piece of his soul never to be regained on this earth. He felt utterly and completely alone. The same absolute solitude he had felt as a boy when his mother was taken from him and he had been handed into the care of the community.

He sat back on his heels and bowed his head. He pressed his empty hands together in prayer. This time, not the words of the Lord’s Prayer that had sustained him for so long, but instead words from the Revelation of St John the Divine. The only Gnostic text that had not provoked Athanasius’ disfavour.

‘A new heaven and a new earth,’ he said.

Here, in the heart of the mountain, Arinius believed such prophecies might be so. After the fear engendered in him by his terrifying vision, now a sense of peace went through him. The calm after the storm.

Unlearned as he believed himself to be, he understood now what the scripture meant. He understood the basis of faith. The promise of the covenant and judgement.

‘I am He that liveth,’ he murmured, ‘and was dead. Behold, I am alive for evermore. Amen.’

Chapter 94

COL DE PYRÈNE

AUGUST 1942

Leo Authié and Sylvère Laval drove past the Grand Café Oliverot, along the Route de Foix.

‘We cannot afford to waste time, Laval,’ Authié said angrily.

‘I’m sorry, sir. I hadn’t allowed for the detour to Tarascon.’

‘Where is the nearest garage?’

‘About an hour’s drive north, sir. This side of Foix.’

Authié slammed his hand down on the dashboard in frustration, though he accepted there was no choice. They had to have petrol. There were few official suppliers in Ariège and none between Limoux and Carcassonne. But to have the Codex in his sights, and be forced to wait, was intolerable. His hand went to the crucifix on his lapel. His desire to see the heretical text with his own eyes was overwhelming. To hold it in his hands, to see if the rumours about its power were true.

Then, to be the man to destroy it.

For a moment, they drove on in silence.

‘How do you know where the Col de Pyrène is, Laval, if it’s not in any guides?’

‘It’s well known locally,’ Laval replied in the same neutral voice.

‘If that’s the case, why the hell haven’t we investigated the site before?’

‘It was excavated before the war, sir. Nothing was found there.’

‘By whom?’ he said sharply.

‘By Herr Bauer’s predecessor, I believe. And by a French team.’

Authié turned in his seat to face Laval. ‘Is Bauer aware of this?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘It makes no sense.’

‘Could it be Déjean found the Codex elsewhere, then chose to hide it in the Col de Pyrène for safe keeping, rather than keep it with him, precisely because he knew the site had been excavated before and dismissed?’

Authié didn’t reply, though he could see Laval’s theory made sense. ‘Drive faster,’ he ordered.

TARASCON

‘There’s no one here,’ Sandrine said, gazing up at Pujol’s house.

Lucie looked quite desperate. ‘I must sit down before I fall down,’ she said.

‘There’s a terrace along the back,’ Eloise said. ‘You can rest there.’

Sandrine and Lucie followed Eloise around the side of the building, then up a flight of narrow stone steps on to a small stone terrace. An old metal table and two chairs, at right angles to one another, were orientated towards the evening sun.

‘You take the weight off your feet,’ Sandrine said. ‘I’ll see if I can find you something to drink, at least.’

In normal circumstances Sandrine would have cavilled at the thought of breaking in to someone’s house – especially a policeman’s – but Lucie was tired and needed a glass of water. She was slumped on the seat. All the life seemed to have gone out of her. The adrenalin of having succeeded in getting into the camp, then seeing Max, had gone. The reality of the horror of his situation had hit her.

‘This window’s open,’ Eloise called.

‘I’ll see if I can get in that way,’ Sandrine said.

Eloise grasped the thin arms of the chair, holding it steady. Sandrine put her hand through the tiny gap at the top of the window. Careful not to push too hard, she eased it open with her shoulder, then stretched down as far as she could until she reached the clasp. Pressing her face against the glass, she worked at the fastening until, finally, it opened. After that, it was easy enough to climb up on to the ledge, jump down to the kitchen floor and unlock the door.

‘I hope Inspector Pujol doesn’t mind too much,’ Sandrine said, handing a glass of water to Lucie.

Lucie drank it all, then said in a defeated voice, ‘What are we going to do now?’

‘You’re going to do nothing. Just sit quietly,’ Sandrine said.

‘I’ll go and see if I can find Guillaume,’ Eloise said. ‘He might know where Monsieur Baillard and Inspector Pujol are. I must warn them about Authié and Laval.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ Sandrine said. ‘We’ll cover more ground if we both look.’ She put her hand on Lucie’s arm. ‘Will you be all right on your own?’

Lucie nodded. ‘I’ll manage.’

‘You sit tight. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

She and Eloise walked back towards the town, Sandrine still wondering if it would be more sensible to stay put. On the other hand, they could be waiting for hours.

‘I’m going this way,’ Eloise said, pointing at a narrow flight of steps winding up into the oldest quartier of the town. ‘If I were you, I’d start with the Grand Café Oliverot, on the Foix road. Inspector Pujol’s often there.’

Sandrine remembered seeing it on the corner as they drove in to Tarascon.

‘If not,’ Eloise continued, ‘there’s another café he likes, close to the railway station.’ She sighed. ‘And, if that fails, there’s a bar below the Tour Castella, on the opposite riverbank. A real old-timers’ place.’

‘All right.’ Sandrine nodded.

‘Let’s meet back at Pujol’s in an hour? See if we’ve had any luck.’

Sandrine walked quickly towards the Oliverot, all the time hoping to see a glimpse of Monsieur Baillard’s distinctive pale suit and panama hat. On the far side of the Pont Vieux, she noticed a heavy-set man with an old fashioned hat. Was it Inspector Pujol?

‘May we have a word?’

Her heart skipped a beat. She’d been concentrating so much on the road ahead, she hadn’t noticed the man standing in the shadow of the doorway of the épicerie. She glanced at him, trying to place his accent. She was certain she didn’t know him.

‘I’m sorry, I’m in an awful rush. If you’ll excuse me.’

Sandrine tried to walk on, but he stepped in front of her and blocked her way.

‘Excuse me,’ she said again, trying not to sound scared.

‘It won’t take long, Fräulein.’

This time the voice came from behind her. Sandrine spun round to see a second man standing behind her, also blocking her way. Fear jabbed her in the chest.

‘Just a question we need to ask,’ he said.

His accent was far stronger. German, but was he a civilian or something more? And why did they want to talk to her?

‘All right,’ she said, attempting to sound calm.

‘We were overhearing your conversation earlier. You are mentioning a friend of ours.’

‘Was I?’ she said, furiously trying to remember what she’d told Eloise and, at the same time, work out what the men wanted.

‘Sylvère Laval,’ he said. ‘You know him?’

Her relief that it wasn’t Raoul they were after was short-lived. Sandrine felt a battering of nerves in her stomach. Monsieur Baillard had said he thought there might be more than one group looking for the Codex, German as well as French.

‘We are anxious to speak to him, fräulein,’ the second man said.

‘I’m afraid I don’t really know him awfully well,’ she said, wondering if they had seen her with Laval and Authié or just heard her talking to Eloise.

‘Do you know where he is?’

Sandrine’s heart was thumping, but she forced herself to pass on the same information as she had given to Authié earlier. Setting the same trap, or so she hoped.

‘It was just something I’d heard. Apparently, he – Sylvère – was going to somewhere called the Col de Pyrène. I don’t know any more than that, messieurs.’

The Germans exchanged a glance, then the man standing in front of Sandrine stepped to the side and waved her through.

‘Danke schön,’ he said.

Sandrine waited until they had gone then, on shaking legs, ran the rest of the way across the bridge. The man with the hat had gone, so she turned and ran back to the Café Oliverot. It was now even more urgent she found Monsieur Baillard.

And what about Raoul? She had to warn him too.

COL DE PYRÈNE

‘Hurry,’ said Authié.

Laval put his foot on the pedal, pushing the car as fast as he could towards the mountains. Authié was going over his conversation with Sandrine Vidal in his head once again. In the past couple of hours he had become more suspicious. There was something about the guileless way she had told him what Déjean had said at the river that didn’t sit right with her self-possession. He couldn’t decide if she had let the information about the cave slip out by accident. If she genuinely didn’t realise the significance of it or was not interested in it. Given her sister’s record, was it possible she was such an innocent?

‘As soon as we have secured the site, Laval, we’ll return to Tarascon,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to Sandrine Vidal again.’

‘Very good, sir. And there was another thing I was going to mention. The girl who came to meet Vidal gave a false name. Or, strictly speaking, Saint-Loup is her maiden name. She’s Eloise Breillac now.’

Authié glanced at him. ‘Why would she lie?’

‘She’s married to Guillaume Breillac, another established local family, like the Saint-Loups. He’s a partisan sympathiser, though we haven’t got anything against him yet. Not enough to bring him in.’

‘Then I shall talk to Madame Breillac too,’ Authié said.

Laval pulled off the road, then drove as fast as he could along the increasingly rutted track until they reached the site. Ahead of them was a field-brown Opel Blitz truck, just visible beneath the trees. It was clear that the branches had been pulled back to allow the vehicle in, then pulled over it again as camouflage.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ Authié demanded.

Laval immediately went to investigate. Authié got out and waited, watching as his lieutenant looked in the window of the cab, then examined the open cargo bed and licence plates before coming back.

‘Civilian plates, sir,’ he said. ‘This was on the front seat.’

It was a copy of Der Stürmer, the most notoriously anti-Semitic, anti-Catholic of the tabloid Nazi newspapers. Many top-level party officials condemned it as pornographic propaganda, but others – such as Himmler – endorsed it and appeared often on its pages. Authié frowned. He’d always known Bauer was an enemy of the Church.

Authié thrust it back at Laval. ‘When you talked to Bauer’s men in Le Vernet, did they say anything?’

‘No.’

‘Would they have been able to keep the information to themselves? In the circumstances.’

Laval held his gaze. ‘I was thorough, sir. I believe that if they had known anything, they would have chosen to tell me.’

Authié nodded. He had seen the results of Laval’s ‘thorough’ interrogations in the past. ‘In which case, how the hell is Bauer here before us?’

‘Given how freely the Vidal girl talked to you, she’s probably gossiped to other people. Tarascon’s small. Things get around.’

‘You believe she was telling the truth?’

‘I don’t think she realised what she was saying.’

Authié pulled his revolver from his pocket. ‘Bring what we need.’

Laval took a cumbersome canvas holdall from the boot. ‘Shall I conceal the car?’

‘We have every right to be here,’ Authié said drily, ‘whereas Bauer does not.’ He paused. ‘Let them do the hard work.’

‘You are not going to approach Bauer?’

Something in Laval’s tone of voice caught Authié’s attention.

‘No,’ he said slowly, watching his lieutenant’s face. ‘Bauer chose not to communicate the information about the Col de Pyrène to me. So I don’t intend to give him the chance to explain. At least, not yet.’

Authié followed Laval up the path, his weapon drawn and alert to any sounds of life. Once they’d climbed through the woods, the land was open and with little shade or cover, but there was no one around. Presently, he saw a cluster of juniper bushes and what appeared to be an unbroken rock face.

‘The entrance isn’t obvious from here, but that’s it,’ said Laval.

‘Is is the only entrance?’

‘To my knowledge, yes.’ Laval paused. ‘Are we going in, sir?’

Authié thought for a moment. ‘No, I don’t want to lose our advantage. We’ll wait and see what they do.’

They took cover behind a small outcrop of rock, shielded from the entrance. Laval took two Mauser K98 rifles from the bag, standard Wehrmacht issue. Authié had decided against using weapons that could be traced back to French operations. He wanted everything to look like a German undertaking. He waited while Laval loaded five rounds into each magazine and secured the bolt.

Authié had not yet decided whether he was going to kill Bauer or not, but he was ready. A holy warrior. His hand went once more to his lapel, then he flexed his fingers, feeling the weight of his gun in his hand.

Raoul lay flat on his stomach, watching Sylvère Laval and Leo Coursan as they took cover behind the outcrop. He steadied his breathing, his anger. His finger itched to pull the trigger. The temptation to shoot was overwhelming, but he couldn’t give away his position. Yet to have Coursan in his sights and be unable to shoot him was almost too much to bear.

The Nazis had been in the cave for two hours. Raoul had heard the catarrhal chug of the truck engine some time after four o’clock, then the sounds of equipment being unloaded and fragments of German. Eloise had told him it was common knowledge in Tarascon that there were Wehrmacht and SS in the area, though everyone pretended otherwise. Some, because they benefited from their presence. Others, because they weren’t sure if they had the right to be in the zone nono or not. Even so, it was a shock to hear German spoken so freely and so openly.

There were five of them. One wore a suit and hat, struggling in the heat even though the sun was still low. The other four were in working clothes and carrying equipment, including hurricane lamps, a winch and hoist, pickaxes and shovels. Raoul had managed to get to the rendezvous point to meet Guillaume Breillac, so Baillard should by now be aware of the German presence. He didn’t understand how it had happened so quickly – Sandrine wasn’t due in Tarascon until Wednesday – though rumours were clearly spreading. But he couldn’t see a way to inform Baillard about the latest development without leaving his observation point, and he didn’t want to do that.

He glanced at his wristwatch. It was six o’clock now. Breillac wasn’t due back until nine. Raoul put his hand on his revolver, and kept his eyes trained on Coursan.

Chapter 95

‘Sir,’ murmured Laval.

Authié nodded. Four men had appeared in the mouth of the cave. They stretched their arms and squinted into the early evening sun after the gloom inside. Their shirts, open at the neck, bore signs of hard work, streaks of machine oil and subterranean grime. Their faces and lower arms were tanned by the weeks of Midi sun, but the skin beneath their collars was pale.

The largest of them pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered them around. The group had the satisfied air of men who’d achieved what they’d set out to do.

‘Morgen?’ Tomorrow?

The big man shook his head, and looked over his shoulder towards the cave.

‘He says tonight. We head for Pau and cross into the zone occupée there. Then up the Atlantic coast.’

‘Wieder zu Hause?’

‘Home, yes.’

‘Out of this heat.’

‘Proper beer.’

‘And the rest of it,’ a third leered, his mime leaving no doubt what he had in mind.

‘What about your wife, Hans?’

‘She can wait a day or two longer,’ he said.

The men all laughed.

Authié calculated. If Bauer was preparing to leave tonight, it was confirmation that he had found something worth taking to his masters in Berlin. So he could approach Bauer and attempt to negotiate with him. Or he could take it by force. Not leave any loose ends. He had briefed Laval for both eventualities. He had prepared himself for both eventualities.

For a moment, the decision hung in the balance. Authié closed his eyes, praying for guidance. His fingers touched the metal on his lapel. The cold physicality of the crucifix gave him the determination he needed. There were four of them against two. If the negotiations turned sour, the odds were not in his favour. The only advantage they had was surprise. To strike first.

He turned to Laval, and nodded. Laval got into position. Authié lifted the Mauser K98. He wedged the stock tight against his right collarbone, braced his left elbow hard against the stone, adjusting his grip several times until it was secure.

His focus narrowed. The noise of the men talking, the sound of their feet on the gravel and rock of the path, the whisper of the cicadas in the long grass below, everything faded away. He lowered his head to the sight, feeling the muscles strain in his neck. He lined up his target through the notch sight then, slowly and gently, he pressed down on the trigger, keeping his aim true, giving life to the bullet in the chamber. The propellant gases expanded, exerting pressure on the bolt, then there was a deafening crack and a starburst flash as the bullet left the rifle.

On the path below, an explosion of red as the shot hit, taking away half of the man’s head. Blood, brains, bone.

For an instant, the other three froze. Then their training kicked in. Soldiers, not civilians.

‘Get down!’ the leader shouted. ‘In Deckung!’

One threw himself behind a boulder, another rolled into the juniper bushes at the edge of the path to take cover. The third, hesitating a moment too long, resting his hand on his dead friend’s shoulder, gave Laval a perfect shot. Laval struck the target straight in the chest, a clean hit. His body slammed back against the trunk of a beech tree.

Authié lowered his rifle, pulled back the bolt, reloaded and locked into position, then fired again. This time his shot went wide. The survivors returned fire, but their pistols – Authié guessed standard German army-issue Lugers or Walther P38s – were no match for the range and power of his weapon.

The man behind the boulder loosed off several rounds, splintering wood and branches some five metres below Laval’s position, but posing no real threat. The German paused to reload, breaking cover momentarily. It was just long enough to give Authié a clear shot. He pushed down on the trigger again. Another blast, another flash of burnt propellant. More blood. Three of the four men were down.

The final target ran for the woods. He kept low, zigzagging to left, to right. Laval couldn’t get a clear shot. The man disappeared into the trees.

Gesturing to Laval to cover him, Authié withdrew from his hiding place and made his way up towards the cave itself. Suddenly, he was terrified Bauer wasn’t there. That he had already gone.

He had to go in and see.

Behind him another shot rang out and struck the ground, shattering the wood of the trees. Authié ran through the undergrowth to the entrance of the cave. He glanced at the bodies. Their weapons were 9mm Lugers, new models. He picked one up and, seeing the chamber was full, took it.

He pressed himself against the cave wall. ‘Bauer?’ he shouted.

Only the echo of his own voice came back at him. Laval fired another shot. Authié put down the rifle, too heavy for close combat, and stepped into the darkness of the cave.

The silence was deafening. Adrenalin surged through him. It had been years since he’d been involved in active operations. For too long he’d been directing matters from behind his desk, rather than leading men out in the field. It felt good to be a soldier again, a Christian knight.

‘Bauer, are you in here? Come out and we’ll talk.’

Nothing. He listened, but could hear nothing. No sound of digging or breathing or footsteps, nothing. His heart sped up. If Bauer was here, why hadn’t he shown himself? Was he hiding? Or was he so far underground he hadn’t heard the shooting?

Authié hesitated, in the end the silence persuading him that Bauer didn’t have other men inside. Laval had reported that the German’s team was comprised of six men. Two were in Le Vernet. The other four were neutralised outside.

Laval joined him. He, too, had abandoned the rifle in favour of a Luger.

‘All down?’

‘Yes,’ Laval replied. ‘Any sign of Bauer?’

Authié shook his head, motioning for Laval to go in front as they made their way into the tunnel. The ground sloped down and the temperature was dropping, but hurricane lamps had been set at regular intervals along the passage so they could see where they were going.

He reached out his hand to get Laval to stop. In the stillness, Authié heard the sound of metal banging against rock. He tightened his fingers around the Luger, then ordered Laval forward once more, until he saw a glow ahead. The tunnel opened out into a chamber, floodlit by lamps on high metal tripods. And there was Erik Bauer. He was standing beside a wooden structure that had been erected over a hole in the ground. A rough frame with a crankshaft handle, a metal pail hanging from a rope.

Authié watched Bauer for a moment, realising he had sent his men away so they didn’t witness what he’d found. He cast his eyes around, double-checking there was no one else with him. He could see no sign that Bauer was armed. There were only digging tools within reach.

‘Bauer,’ he said, coming out from behind the rock.

The German spun round. Authié saw the look of shock on his face immediately turn to horror. Bauer’s hand went to his pocket.

‘What have you found?’

But before the German had the chance to answer, the sound of a shot rang out, a sharp crack echoing off the stone walls of the chamber, hitting Bauer in the chest.

‘Hold fire!’ Authié shouted.

The order was lost in the sound of a second shot, this one striking Bauer in the shoulder. He swayed on his feet, then crumpled sideways to the ground.

Authié covered the distance with a few long strides. Bauer was lying in a pool of blood, a splinter of white shoulder bone showing through his skin and cotton shirt. He pushed the body with his foot. A gush of blood spurted from the wound in Bauer’s chest, though his pale eyes were still open. Authié reached down and took a small wooden box from the German’s hand.

‘Were you going to tell me about this? Were you?’

‘Go to hell,’ the German managed to say.

Authié crouched down and pressed the muzzle of the gun to Bauer’s temple.

‘Who told you to look here?’

A bubble of blood foamed in the corner of Bauer’s mouth. ‘Meine Ehre heißt Treue.’

Honour and loyalty, the motto of the SS. Even if Laval hadn’t fired, Authié was certain Bauer wouldn’t have told him anything. He pulled the trigger. Bauer’s body jerked violently once, then slumped motionless on the rough earth.

‘I thought he was pulling a gun,’ Laval said.

Authié held out the box. ‘No, he was going for this.’

‘Is it the Codex?’ Laval asked.

Authié ignored him. He hesitated, then lifted the lid of the box. A wave of triumph went through him at the sight of the papyrus inside. He lifted it out and unrolled it. Yellow, brittle to the touch, the surface covered in jagged brown symbols, letters. Seven short verses – a work of heresy, despite the sign of the cross. He was caught between awe at the power the proscribed text was said to possess and revulsion at the heresy it represented.

‘Hostem repellas longius, pacemque dones protinus . . . so shall we not, with Thee for guide, turn from the path of life aside.’

The battle cry of the Catholic crusaders as they defeated the Cathar heresy – in Béziers, in Carcassonne, at Montségur. They were not the right words for the occasion, but Authié felt in need of protection. He returned the scroll to the box and closed the lid.

‘Sir?’

‘Bring the rest of the bodies inside, then secure the cave,’ he ordered.

Authié bent down and searched Bauer’s pockets, but found nothing of significance. For a moment, he looked down at the indistinguishable pulp of matted hair, blood and brain, then he slipped the Totenkopfring from Bauer’s finger and put it in his own pocket. Finally, picking up the precious box, he made his way back to the surface.

Laval was dragging the last of the bodies into the mouth of the cave.

‘Are the charges ready?’ asked Authié.

‘In a couple of minutes they will be, sir.’

Removing himself out of range of the blast, Authié watched Laval take two small mines from his rucksack. He placed one at each end of the entrance, then took cover and pressed the handle. The two explosions, seconds apart, were muffled. Clouds of grey smoke and dust billowed out into the green countryside, the sound of rock and stone collapsing on itself. It was the way the Germans secured each of the sites they’d excavated. By sealing the cave, Authié hoped to avoid any problems. Despite his contacts, five murdered men would be difficult to cover up and he did not want to be caught up in lengthy enquiries.

Laval picked up the spent cartridges and the two rifles.

‘What do you want to do about the truck, sir?’

Authié thought for a moment. ‘We’ll have to leave it. It’s well camouflaged. Let’s hope no one finds it in the next day or so. Or if they do, that they steer well clear.’

Laval held the door open for Authié, then got into the front seat and started the car.

‘Back to Tarascon, sir? You wanted to talk to Sandrine Vidal again.’

Authié sat back in the seat, holding the box on his lap. A long sigh escaped from between his lips.

‘She can wait,’ he said. ‘Head for Toulouse.’

Codex XVI

GAUL

PIC DE VICDESSOS

AUGUST AD 342

Arinius emerged from the cave to a world of a luminous purple and pink sky. Green and silver leaves dancing in the breeze, a golden sun beating down upon the earth. He felt unburdened, but also bereft. He wondered if this was how women felt after giving birth, having carried a child within them for so long. A sense of emptiness. Of being alone.

He looked out over the ancient forest. He felt closer to his God than he had ever felt within the stone walls of the community. The memory of the liturgia horarum was faint in his memory now. It had been Passiontide when he last celebrated God’s presence in each of the hours of the day.

Here at the top of the world, in the ancient borderlands in the sky, Arinius knew he was as near to a state of grace as he would ever be. More than in his home city of Lugdunum, following the arc of the river Saone, standing on the quayside in Massilia, waving farewell to his friends. More completely at peace than he had been when travelling the Via Domitia or praying in the simple chapel in the fortified town of Carcaso. Even during this last voyage south through the vines on the plains of Septimania.

He wondered if he might stay here to keep watch over the Codex. Live as a hermit, like Paul of Thebes. Make his home in the caves of Gaul and Hispania, waiting until the times had changed and the true word of God could be heard. An ancient, like Moses or Abraham or Enoch. A Christian patriarch spending his life in meditation and silence and reflection.

Arinius shook his head. His mission was not yet completed. He could not renounce civilisation until he had ensured that those coming after him might have the means to retrieve the Codex in the future.

He was tired after his exertions and the labours of the day, but he knew he couldn’t afford to rest. His bones were aching and he felt the threatening pressure in his chest that often presaged a full-blown attack. He had no time to waste.

Feeling the stiffness in his shoulders and arms, Arinius bent down and picked up the bearing block, spindle and fireboard, cool now, and put them back in his sack. He tipped the grey ash on to the ground, and the few sticks in the tinder bundle that had not caught he scattered behind the rocks framing the entrance to the cave. He had left the torch shining inside the chamber.

Settling himself on the plateau below the cave, he looked around, judging the distance between the juniper glade and the cruciform entrance to the cave, studying the avenue of oak trees and the way the light patterned the face of the rock. Arinius coughed and pressed the heel of his hand against his ribs, trying to steady his breathing and not let an attack take hold. He unpacked his materials from the bag: the squares of milk-coloured wool, an earthenware bowl, oil and the ink he had made.

He coughed again, feeling the ache in his ribs. This time, the attack lasted a little longer. Struggling to catch his breath, Arinius poured a little oil from the bottle and mixed it with the ink. With the tip of a blackbird’s feather, he experimented with a few strokes until he had the pressure and daub just right. To his relief, he found the wool held an image perfectly well and did not smudge.

Another bout of coughing, but he drank some barley beer and it soothed his throat. He had little appetite these days, but the beer always helped. Then he took a new square of wool and, dabbing the tip of the blackbird’s wing in the ink, began to paint a map of the valley.

Arinius worked quickly, glancing up from time to time, then back to the work of art taking shape in his hands. Finally, it was finished. He signed his name and, beside it, put the sign of the cross. Then he laid the map out to dry, holding it in place with a stone at each corner.

He was very breathless now and he felt the familiar irritation in his throat that often presaged a bad attack. He tried to stop it, but he couldn’t help himself. He felt as if his lungs were turning inside out as he gasped for air. There was a metallic taste in his mouth and, when he looked down, he saw starbursts of bright blood all down the front of his tunic. Then it took him again and he became light-headed, dizzy from the repeated coughing. He wrapped his arms around his ribs, trying to stop the pain, but nothing made any difference. He was losing his strength. He tried to catch his breath, he tried to stay on his feet, but he couldn’t hold himself up any longer. His legs buckled and he fell to the soft ground. In desperation, he stretched out towards the map, but it was out of reach.

‘God spare me,’ he tried to say. ‘Lord, deliver me.’

The words died on his lips.

Chapter 96

TOULOUSE

AUGUST 1942

Leo Authié walked through the labyrinth of small streets in the oldest part of the city, heading towards the Place du Capitole. In the 1930s, the area had been bohemian, full of jazz bars and poetry cellars and eccentric pavement cafés. Now it was more like a slum, whole families living in single rooms, men with no work on every street corner, children with bare feet begging and holding out their hands.

He walked down rue de la Tour until he found the street he was looking for, and turned into it. Halfway along the rue des Pénitents Gris was an antiquarian bookseller. There was no name, no number, but the display of books in the window – Bertolt Brecht, Walter Benjamin, Einstein, Freud and Engels, Gide, Zola, Stefan Zweig, Heinrich Heine, Arthur Koestler, all authors banned by the Vichy government in accordance with Berlin’s wishes – told Authié he was in the right place. The proprietor of the bookshop was known to the police in Toulouse as a leading socialist and a distributor of radical newspapers. He had been arrested several times.

Authié pushed down on the old-fashioned handle and stepped inside on to a coarse rush mat. The silence thronged around him, the air long undisturbed. He strode across the wooden floor, taking off his hat and gloves, then put them down and tapped the bell on the counter.

‘Service,’ he said. ‘S’il vous plaît.’

A man in his sixties, dressed in black and with a shock of white hair, appeared from the back of the shop. His face was smooth, but his skin hung loose around his neck, his hands, as if he’d been a bigger man once.

‘Monsieur Saurat?’

The man nodded, his eyes wary. He didn’t look like the medieval scholar Authié had been led to expect.

‘You are Saurat?’ he said again.

This time, the man answered. ‘I am.’

Authié produced the box from the inside pocket of his jacket, making no attempt to conceal the revolver in its holster as he did so.

‘I have a job for you,’ he said.

He opened the lid, revealing the scroll of papyrus. Saurat’s eyes widened.

‘Monsieur,’ he said, his voice high-pitched. ‘The oil in the tips of your fingers, in your skin, could cause irreparable damage.’

Authié was still in two minds. The man was unsound, he knew that from his police file, but he was said to be an authority.

‘May I?’ said Saurat.

Authié nodded. Saurat put on a pair of half-moon spectacles, then took a pair of white linen gloves from under the counter.

‘I want to know how old this document is,’ Authié said.

Saurat picked up the box first, turning it over in his hands to examine it from every angle.

‘Walnut wood. Commonly used in the third and fourth centuries, in particular. In good condition. I assume it has been in a museum?’

‘I am not interested in the box, Saurat. What can you tell me about the text?’

Without a word, Saurat placed the box on the counter and turned his attention to the papyrus.

‘Have you unrolled it?’

‘Yes.’

Saurat’s hand beneath the counter again, this time bringing out a large magnifying glass. He leant even closer and slowly read each line.

‘I was told you were the expert,’ Authié said impatiently.

‘An expert.’

‘In what particular field?’

‘In medieval texts – Latin, Greek, old French, Occitan. This is written in Coptic, outside my usual period.’ Behind his glasses, his eyes lit up. ‘Is it for sale?’

Authié stared at him. ‘How old is it?’

Saurat looked back to the document. ‘I cannot be certain, although it is not unlikely it also dates from the fourth century. May I ask where you acquired this, monsieur?’

‘All I need to know is if it is genuine.’

Saurat laid the glass back on the counter. ‘Without running proper tests on the papyrus, it is impossible to be certain. You would do better to take this to the university.’

Authié stared coldly at him. ‘It is a simple yes or no, Saurat. I’m not asking you to translate it or do anything other than give your considered opinion as to whether this appears to be authentic.’

Saurat took off his spectacles. ‘I still recommend you have it analysed properly. But, having said that, within my knowledge of documents of this era from Egypt, primarily, perhaps also Syria and Persia, I would be confident saying that this one could be dated to the third or fourth century.’

‘Thank you,’ said Authié. ‘Put it back in the box.’

Saurat picked up the papyrus, replaced it and closed the lid, then pushed the box across the counter.

‘Is it for sale, monsieur? I would give you a good price for it.’

Authié laughed. ‘Do you people think of nothing but money?’

‘Business doesn’t stop,’ Saurat replied, meeting his gaze.

Authié put the box back in his pocket. He was aware of the man’s eyes jealously following his every move.

‘It is not for sale, Saurat. It never will be.’

‘A pity,’ he said mildly. ‘I would very much like to own it.’

Authié took up his hat and gloves and walked quickly to the door.

‘It would be in your best interests not to mention this conversation to anyone. Do I make myself clear? Not least, the selection of books in your window could get you into a great deal of trouble.’

The bell jangled as the door shut.

Saurat stood in the silence for a few moments. Security, secret police, Deuxième Bureau, he didn’t know, only that the man wasn’t to be trusted. When he was sure Authié wasn’t coming back, he locked and bolted the front door and pulled down the blind. Then he went to the telephone. It took a couple of minutes for the operator to place the call.

‘It’s in play,’ Saurat said, without identifying himself. He listened, then answered the question. ‘Oh yes, he believed me. What? Yes, he was French.’

He hung up and poured himself a generous measure of brandy. He hoped the information would get to its final destination.

Three hours later, a telephone rang in a small house in the Ariège. A heavy man levered himself up out of his chair on the terrace and went inside to answer.

‘Pujol,’ he said.

He listened, then nodded.

‘I’ll tell him.’

Codex XVII

GAUL

PIC DE VICDESSOS

AUGUST AD 342

‘I thought you were dead.’

The words were spoken in a dialect Arinius did not know, so he struggled to make sense of them. He opened his eyes to see a girl of fifteen or sixteen looking down at him in the half-light of the dusk.

‘Or ill,’ she added.

He realised he must have been unconscious for hours. The light had fled from the mountain and the woods around him were now black. Arinius stared up at the pretty, round face. She was wearing a blue tunic, with wide sleeves, though her hair was loose rather than braided. He could see from her colouring that she was a descendant of the Volcae or the Tertelli who lived in the valleys before the Romans came.

He sat up. ‘I’m not dead,’ he said, though for a moment he thought he might be. Perhaps she was an angel?

‘I can see that now.’

He smiled. ‘Of course.’

‘Are you ill?’

Arinius looked down and remembered the attack, the panic as he lost consciousness. Quickly, he glanced over at the rock and saw that the map was still there, undisturbed.

He sighed. ‘I am tired. I’ve been travelling for some time.’

‘Where have you come from?’

‘Where have you come from?’ he said back at her, enjoying her spirited way of talking and meeting his eye.

‘I asked you first.’

Arinius laughed. ‘Aren’t you afraid to be out here on your own?’

‘Why should I be?’

‘It’s nearly night,’ he said, though, even as he was speaking, he could see there was no trace of fear in the girl’s face. Only wide-eyed interest and confidence. He laughed again, and, this time, was rewarded with a smile.

‘What were you doing?’ she asked, looking at the writing materials spread all around him, his bag and the squares of wool. ‘It’s too dark to see anything out here.’

‘It is now,’ he agreed. ‘It wasn’t when I started.’

She looked at him curiously. ‘Why would you come here to paint?’ she asked. ‘Or whatever you’re doing.’

‘Well,’ he began, then realised he couldn’t think of a plausible answer. ‘It’s as good a place as any.’

‘It isn’t! It’s a stupid place to come! ’ she said crossly. ‘There are wild animals out here, didn’t you think? Down there, we have houses and tables where it might be easier to work.’ She shrugged. ‘But if you are all right in the woods, then . . .’

With a flick of her long brown hair, she picked up her basket and turned away from him.

‘Don’t go! ’ he called, desperate not to lose her company. ‘I was unaware there was a settlement so close. I would, of course, much prefer that. Could you show me the way?’

She looked at him for a moment, then nodded. ‘If you like.’

Arinius gathered his belongings and, aware of the girl’s sharp eyes on him, returned everything to his bag. He retrieved the map, rolled it and put it inside the bottle.

‘What were you painting?’ she asked.

He smiled. ‘Nothing that matters.’

‘Most people don’t come here,’ she said, changing the subject again. ‘That’s why I was surprised to see someone. You.’

‘Why don’t they come here?’

‘There are legends about this valley. The Vallée des Trois Loups, it’s called.’

‘What kind of legends?’

She stared cautiously at him. ‘You have heard of Hercules?’

Arinius hid a smile. ‘I have,’ he said seriously.

‘It is said that when he abandoned his lover, Pyrène, the daughter of King Berbyx, she tried to follow him and was torn to pieces by wild animals. Here. Wolves, obviously.’

‘Obviously.’

She looked suspiciously at him, thinking he was making fun of her, but Arinius smiled, and after a moment, she continued.

‘When Hercules found her remains, he was turned half mad with grief. He ripped the land apart with his bare hands and that’s how the mountains were formed.’ Her face creased in a frown. ‘I don’t think it’s a true story.’

‘Maybe not,’ he agreed.

‘But it’s where I got my name,’ she added.

‘What is your name, will you tell me?’

For a moment, he thought she would refuse.

‘Lupa,’ she said.

Arinius smiled, thinking there was perhaps something of the wolf about her. The way she walked with purpose, her long hair lying flat against her back.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

‘Arinius,’ he said.

‘Where do you come from?’

‘I’ve travelled long distances,’ he said. ‘But I suppose I might call Carcaso home.’

Her eyes widened with interest, but then she shrugged, as if to say that such far-off places were of no interest to her. Taking him by surprise, she suddenly set off back down the wooded path and he was forced to hurry to keep up with her.

Arinius was aware of her glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, though, as if to check he was real.

‘Are you ill?’ she asked again in a serious voice. ‘There’s blood on your clothes.’

Arinius thought of the gasping for air and the pain. He’d thought he was going to die, but, for whatever reason, God had spared him.

‘I am ill,’ he said. ‘But I feel better at the moment.’

Lupa stared at him for a moment. ‘Good,’ she said abruptly, then continued even faster down the hill.

It was almost dark by the time they reached a small circle of houses, buildings, huts on the far side of a wide-open plain. Tiny splashes of colour, blue and pink and yellow. Tall poppies, the colour of blood, punctuating the green with red.

‘There it is,’ she said.

‘What’s it called?’

‘It doesn’t have a proper name.’

‘All right,’ he smiled. ‘What do you call it?’

‘Tarasco,’ she said.

Chapter 97

TARASCON

AUGUST 1942

‘Your plan’s worked,’ Pujol said, coming back out to the terrace.

‘Authié took it to Saurat, like you predicted, Audric. Saurat authenticated it.’

Raoul whistled.

‘Ben.’ Baillard nodded. ‘Good. My thanks to you all, especially you, madomaisèla. Because of your courage and quick thinking, we are further ahead than I could have dared to hope.’

‘I was glad to help,’ Sandrine said, squeezing Raoul’s hand.

‘My thanks to you too, Madomaisèla Lucie.’

Lucie nodded, but didn’t say anything. She continued to stare out over the cottage gardens, almost invisible now in the fading light. Sandrine and Raoul exchanged a look. Sandrine touched her arm. Lucie jumped, then caught her breath. Sandrine wanted to tell her that everything would work out all right, but she couldn’t bring herself to give her false hope.

Baillard, Pujol and Raoul had all arrived at the house at the same time, to find the girls waiting for them. Baillard and Pujol had been on their way back to the Col de Pyrène, Breillac having passed on Raoul’s earlier message that a German team was at the cave. They had met Raoul coming down from the mountain to tell them about the gunfight, the mining of the cave and the fact that Coursan – Authié as he was learning to call him – had the forgery.

Sandrine was delighted to see Raoul, although furious that he’d taken the risk of coming into town. For his part, he’d been horrified to learn about her trip to Le Vernet and that she had been in such close proximity to Authié and Laval. Quickly though, his anger had given way to pride at how she had held her nerve and set the trap.

‘Was there a real Leo Coursan?’ Sandrine said.

‘I think there must have been,’ Raoul answered. ‘That’s what alerted César in the first place.’ He sighed. ‘If only he’d confided in me, then.’

He looked at Baillard. ‘Do you think Authié was responsible for César’s murder?’

‘Yes, although I imagine Laval actually killed him.’

‘And Antoine.’ Raoul’s face hardened. ‘And I was that close to him. I could have shot him. Both of them.’

‘There was nothing you could have done,’ Sandrine said quietly. ‘You had to let him go for the plan to work.’

‘Not next time,’ he said. ‘Next time, I will kill him.’

She looked at him for a moment, then turned to Monsieur Baillard.

‘What do you think will happen now?’

‘I will watch to see what Captain Authié does with the forgery now Sénher Saurat has authenticated it. Even though Bauer is dead – thanks to you, Pujol, we know the identity of those men – it doesn’t mean that there isn’t Nazi money behind Authié.’

‘What do you think he will do with it?’

‘He might do many different things. He might offer it to the Ahnenerbe in Berlin, or even to the Weltliche Schatzkammer Museum in Vienna. He might have his own experts in Paris.’

‘Or keep it?’ she asked.

‘Or, indeed, keep it,’ Baillard agreed.

‘What are we going to do about the bodies?’ Raoul asked.

‘Leave them to rot up there,’ Pujol said.

‘Achille . . .’ Baillard reproved him.

Pujol held up his hands. ‘I know, I know. You want them safely in the earth, don’t you, Audric? But we can’t. If we open the cave, word will get back to Authié.’

Baillard sighed. ‘I understand. And it is better if he thinks he has got away with this unnoticed, yes.’

‘Are you going to stay in Tarascon, Monsieur Baillard?’ Sandrine asked.

‘I cannot. I am expected in Ax-les-Thermes to help a new group of refugees. It is an old promise and I must keep it. After that, in September – and once things have quietened in Tarascon – I shall begin the business of searching for the real Codex.’ He inclined his head to Raoul. ‘A business that, thanks to you, Sénher Pelletier, will now be easier.’

‘Let me know if I can help,’ Raoul said. ‘Perhaps I could come back in a few weeks, if you want me to.’

‘I will.’

For a moment, nobody spoke. Lucie was asleep in her chair. Pujol was tapping the ash of his cigarette on to the flagstones of the terrace.

‘Is Sandrine still in danger, Monsieur Baillard?’ Raoul asked quietly.

‘We’re all in danger, one way or another,’ Sandrine said, not wanting to think about it.

Raoul put his hand on her arm. ‘Sandrine, please.’ He looked back to Baillard.

‘Is she?’

Baillard paused. ‘I believe Madomaisèla Sandrine is in less danger than before. Captain Authié has no need of her. He believes he now knows all she had to tell. Not only that, he has the Codex itself – or so he believes.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Raoul said, pulling Sandrine even closer to him.

‘Your part in this story is done, madomaisèla,’ Baillard said. ‘You should return to Coustaussa tomorrow, then decide what to do for the best.’

‘I’ve already decided, Monsieur Baillard. Liesl will stay there with Marieta, as we’d always planned. Geneviève’s close at hand. They all know each other now.’ She paused and looked at the old policeman. ‘And Eloise and Inspector Pujol are here, if there’s any trouble.’

Pujol nodded. ‘I’ll keep an eye on things.’

‘I don’t know what Lucie will want to do, but I’ll return to Carcassonne with Marianne and Suzanne. There’s no need to wait.’ She met Baillard’s eye. ‘I’m going to help them. Work with them.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ Raoul started to say. ‘I’d be happier if you stayed in Coustaussa.’

Monsieur Baillard gave a slight smile. ‘No, Madomaisèla Sandrine is right. It is the wisest thing to return home. If you carry on as usual, Captain Authié has no reason to be suspicious. If you disappear from view, you run every risk of making him wonder what else you have to hide.’ He held her gaze. ‘But be careful, all three of you. Be very careful and circumspect in what you choose to do.’

His words sent another shiver down her spine. ‘I will.’

Lucie suddenly stretched, then sat up in her chair. Sandrine wondered how long she’d been awake.

‘There’s nothing that can be done for Max other than to keep writing, keep hoping we can get him out,’ Lucie said. ‘He said that there are trains taking the Jewish prisoners to the East. Frenchmen, not foreigners.’ She stopped, clearly struggling to keep her fear under control. ‘If they send him away, I’ll never see him again.’ She put her hand on her stomach. ‘We will never see him.’

Sandrine got up and put her arm around Lucie. She felt rigid, tense, unyielding. Sandrine didn’t say anything, couldn’t think of anything she could say.

‘Is it true?’ Lucie said, looking at Monsieur Baillard. ‘There are special trains?’

‘It is what they say.’

Lucie looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded, as if she had come to a decision. She turned to Sandrine.

‘If it’s all right with you, I’ll stay in Coustaussa. If it’s possible. At least until the baby is born.’

‘Of course.’

She stood up. ‘Now, I’m sorry to be a bother, but is there somewhere I might lie down for an hour or so? We’ll have to set off for Foix to pick up the motor, if you want to get back to Coustaussa in the morning.’

‘Only if you’re up to driving,’ Sandrine said.

‘I will be. A couple of hours’ sleep will see me right.’

Pujol hauled himself out of his chair. ‘It might take a moment,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’ve been using the bedroom as something of a store.’

Lucie rested her hand on Sandrine’s shoulder as she passed. ‘Thanks, kid,’ she said, ‘for all of it. For coming with me, for putting up with the fuss. You and Marianne, you’ve been wonderful. Real pals.’

For a moment after she’d gone, they sat in silence.

‘What about you?’ Sandrine said in a soft voice to Raoul.

‘My only hope is to keep moving. Despite what we’ve done today, nothing’s changed for me.’

‘I suppose I thought . . .’

‘The warrant against him is for murder, filha, as well as insurgency,’ Baillard said quietly. ‘He cannot go back to Carcassonne.’

‘No.’ Sandrine felt a lump in her throat. She looked at Baillard, then at Raoul.

‘I just hoped that . . .’

‘I’ll send a message whenever I can,’ Raoul said swiftly. ‘If there’s a chance to meet, I’ll take it.’

Sandrine squeezed his hand. She knew as well as he did that it was a promise he’d struggle to keep.

‘I’ll find a way,’ he whispered.

‘I know.’

From inside the house, the sound of Pujol preparing a bed for Lucie. Low voices, a door shutting.

‘You should rest too, madomaisèla,’ said Baillard. ‘And you, Sénher Pelletier.’

Sandrine shook her head. ‘I couldn’t possibly sleep. I’ve got too many things going round in my head.’ She looked out towards the Pic de Vicdessos, shrouded now in the blackness of the night. ‘You believe the Codex is still there?’ she asked.

‘I do.’

‘And . . . you believe it can raise the ghost army?’

Baillard smiled. ‘Can you not hear them?’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘The shadows in the mountains.’

Sandrine stared at him for a moment, then she closed her eyes. She took a deep breath, trying to float free of the real world around her, what she could see and feel and touch. Instead tried to listen to the older echoes and sounds held in the memory of the land.

For a single, dazzling moment she saw their faces clearly. Not shadows or echoes, but instead a girl with long copper curls pinned high on her head. Another, more radiant still, in a long green dress and with dark hair loose on her shoulders. Shimmering and bright against the night sky, spirit and absence of colour.

‘Can’t you hear them?’ Baillard said again. ‘They are waiting to be summoned.’

Chapter 98

COUSTAUSSA

On Wednesday 19 August, the day of Antoine Déjean’s funeral, Sandrine boarded the northbound train at Couiza to return to Carcassonne. This time, Suzanne and Marianne sat in the carriage with her and there was no one to see them off. They had said their goodbyes to Liesl, Lucie and Marieta at the house. Geneviève and Eloise were in Tarascon with Inspector Pujol to pay their respects. Monsieur Baillard had left for Ax-les-Thermes.

Raoul had spent two days with her in Coustaussa, then left on Tuesday for Banyuls-sur-Mer. In his rucksack were false papers and a roll of francs bound up with an elastic band to pay the passeur for the next group of refugees and Allied soldiers to be guided through the mountains to Spain, then Portugal. Sandrine was proud of him. It was important work.

‘Soon,’ he whispered as he left. ‘I’ll come back to you as soon as I can.’

Sandrine had nodded and pretended she believed him.

The train pulled out of the station. Every jerk and jolt of the old rolling stock put more and more space between them.

‘It’s for the best,’ Marianne said, misinterpreting the expression on her face. ‘Marieta will look after them.’

Sandrine dragged her thoughts back to the present. ‘I think Lucie will be all right. Having told Max their news, all her attention is on the baby now.’

‘She’s always been like that,’ Marianne said. ‘Single-minded to a fault.’

‘She’s worried that you haven’t forgiven her for talking to Authié in the first place.’

Sandrine saw Marianne’s expression change, but she kept going.

‘We talked about it a fair bit. She panicked. She didn’t mean to do the wrong thing – she genuinely didn’t think it could hurt – and she doesn’t want it to be something that gets between you.’

‘I have forgiven her, as you put it, but I can’t forget it. We all have to make choices – how best to protect the people we love – and it is hard.’

‘She just didn’t think. And I don’t want to be the cause of bad feeling between you. You’ve been friends for so long.’

Marianne sighed. ‘Everyone compromises. There’s no black and no white, just shades of grey. Everybody’s trying to get by. Everyone tells themselves it’s all right to inform on a neighbour or give the police a tip-off, because it will go better for their family. Or thinks that what they do can’t really make a difference.’ She sighed. ‘But the small betrayals lead to bigger ones, morality is eroded. Whatever the inducements, whatever the threats, it’s simple. You do not betray your friends.’

‘Marianne, come on. She didn’t betray me. That’s too strong.’

Her sister met her gaze. ‘She traded information for a favour, so she thought,’ she said in a level voice. ‘The fact that they already had the information is neither here nor there. So, although I’m still very fond of her, I can’t pretend it didn’t happen. I will do everything I can to make sure she is all right. But I won’t forget.’

‘I didn’t realise you felt so strongly.’

‘Yes you did.’ She paused. ‘And she knows you feel you should have done something to help Max in the first place, although you couldn’t. I think she plays on that.’

‘No, she’s never said anything like that. I just feel awful, I can’t help it. I know it’s silly.’

‘It is.’ Marianne glanced at Suzanne, and, for a moment, her expression relaxed. Then the smile slipped from her face once more. ‘We have so much to do in Carcassonne. So many men are in prison, we are going to have to work twice as hard. And there’s Authié to contend with. All we can do is carry on as normal. Hope he leaves you – leaves us – alone. Be particularly careful.’

Sandrine realised how nervous she was at the thought of being back in the Bastide. Knowing Madame Fournier would be watching from next door. Accepting that she would have to be constantly on her guard.

‘So you see,’ Marianne was saying, ‘Lucie is the furthest thing from my mind.’

‘Yes, I see,’ Sandrine said, wishing she hadn’t brought it up.

She leant her head against the wooden frame of the carriage window and tilted her face to the hot August afternoon. The train hummed its lullaby song along the metal tracks parallel to the river. She wondered where Raoul would sleep tonight. She wondered how long it would be before she saw him again. Two weeks, two months? Longer?

What if the war never ended? Was that possible?

She closed her eyes, willing there to be some truth in the legend. That just as Dame Carcas had defeated the armies of Charlemagne, the ghost army might once more be summoned and drive out the new invaders from France. Only when they were free from occupation once more could she and Raoul hope to be together. She glanced at her sister and at Suzanne, and smiled.

Until such time as Monsieur Baillard found the Codex, they would do everything they could. They would play their part.

Chapter 99

THE HAUTE VALLÉE

At first sight, everything appeared the same as always. The wide drailles were empty and it didn’t look as if anyone had passed that way for some time. All the same, Baillard was anxious. To start with, the group was larger than he liked – it was safer to take people in twos and threes over Roc Blanc – and larger than he had been expecting. Three of the men were quiet and on edge, in the usual sort of way. One English airman who spoke no French, a Dutchman and a Jewish dissident, a scholar. All bore the marks of hardship and experience on their faces. The fourth, a Frenchman, was nervous too, like the others, but he kept glancing over his shoulder and looking at his watch.

‘Just wondering how much longer to the summit,’ he said, when he noticed Baillard looking at him.

‘Some time yet.’

‘Where are we now?’

‘Do you need to know, sénher?’ Baillard said mildly.

‘No,’ he said quickly, ‘just interested.’

Keeping the water to their left, Baillard led the group on towards the pine forest that lay between Étang de Baxouillade and the plains before the Étang du Laurenti. At least in the woods they would be less exposed. He glanced behind him and saw the man was lagging behind.

‘Sénher, you must hurry,’ he said.

‘I had to stop. Something in my shoe.’

Baillard peered ahead. One of the most hard-working passeurs had been caught last week, which was why he had agreed to take the group higher up into the mountains than he usually did. He was expecting to see the Spanish guide hired to take them over the border, but there was no sign of him.

The Frenchman caught up and walked in step. Baillard’s misgivings grew. He glanced at the Dutchman and could see he was suspicious too. Baillard’s hand went to his pocket and found his pistol. He slipped the safety catch off and positioned his finger on the trigger, ready to act if need be.

‘Put your hands up.’

The shouted order came from the woods. A line of police, armed with semi-automatic rifles, were stepping out of the cover of the trees. Baillard immediately dropped to the ground.

Another shout. ‘Drop your weapons!’

The Englishman tried to run. The police opened fire. Blood and guts exploded from his chest as a hail of machine-gun fire hammered into him. The other two immediately put their hands on their heads. The informer leant close to him.

‘You’ve got no chance, old man,’ he said.

Baillard pulled the gun from his pocket and let off a shot, but it went wide. He saw the informer’s hand come up, then felt a blinding flash of pain on the side of his head. As he lost consciousness, he was aware of his hands being dragged up behind his back.

When Baillard came round, he was in the back of a police van. The Dutchman and the dissident were also there, along with several other men. Some had been roughed up, others looked as if they’d been arrested at work or in their homes.

It was hot and airless and there was a stench of blood and dirt, the sour smell of fear. The van wasn’t moving.

‘How long have we been here?’

‘Two hours, maybe three,’ the Dutchman said.

Baillard could feel dried blood on his ear and neck. The force of the blow still seemed to be reverberating in his head. He tried to move, but the handcuffs tightened on his wrists and pinched his skin.

‘What are they waiting for?’ the scholar asked.

‘For the last lot to come in. Five raids today, all tip-offs,’ the Dutchman said. ‘That’s what they were saying.’

The door of the van was suddenly thrown wide and the faces of two guards appeared in the opening. They peered through the metal grille.

‘Audric Baillard?’

No one spoke.

‘We’re looking for him, an old man. Arrested today.’

Without appearing to move, the Dutchman and the Jewish dissident both slightly shifted position in the van, so that Baillard was blocked from the policeman’s view.

‘No?’

‘This lot were arrested in the mountains,’ the younger officer said. ‘If he’s as old as they say, he’d hardly be all the way up there.’

The door was slammed shut again. For a moment, no one spoke. Then Baillard gave a long sigh of relief.

‘Gentlemen, I am in your debt,’ he said quietly.

‘It’s the least I can do to repay the compliment,’ the Dutchman said. ‘I’ve been shown nothing but kindness.’

‘And I know your work, Monsieur Baillard,’ said the dissident. ‘It is an honour to meet you, even in these circumstances. I wish I had realised earlier.’

‘Better that you did not.’

There was a bang on the side of the van. The driver fired the engine, and they moved off. Baillard closed his eyes, thinking of the trials of the past. Of a young man murdered in the dungeon of the Château Comtal many centuries ago. Of those tortured in the cloisters of Saint-Etienne and Saint-Sernin in the name of religion. Of those being sent to camps in the East. An endless cycle of persecution and death, or so it sometimes seemed. Perhaps it would never end.

If he died now, then everything he had suffered would have been in vain. The wars he had fought, the disappointments he had endured, the endless task of bearing witness to the worst of human nature for the sake of the downtrodden and the defeated. Baillard thought of those he had failed to save in the past and those he was trying to help now. He didn’t know where they were taking him, or how they knew his name, only that his life could not end here. He had to find a way to escape, to survive until the end.

The story was not over yet.

‘A la perfin,’ he murmured.

PART III

The Last Battle

July 1944

Codex XVIII

GAUL

TARASCO

JULY AD 344

‘Please, Lupa,’ Arinius pleaded. ‘When the time comes, you must promise me you will take the boy and go to the mountains with the others.’

His wife folded her arms and fixed him with a stony look. ‘I’m not leaving you.’

Lupa was a woman now, a mother, someone others looked up to in their growing community of Christians. Arinius still saw in her the strong-minded girl who had found him unconscious on the plains below the Pic de Vicdessos and taken him to her father’s house. The girl who had nursed him back to health – with the burden of carrying the Codex lifted – looked after him and, to his great and everlasting gratitude, loved him. A few of his brothers in the community in Lugdunum had refused to take wives, believing they should dedicate their bodies as well as their souls to God alone. But it was rare. Arinius knew that the love he felt for Lupa was a reflection of all that was good in the world, a sign of God’s grace for his creation.

The past two years had been the happiest of his life, the most tranquil. But no longer. The fragile peace that held in the borderlands between Hispania and Gaul, while the rest of the Empire disintegrated into warring factions, had finally broken. Tarasco was no longer safe.

‘They say there are soldiers lower down the valley,’ Arinius said. ‘Everyone is leaving to seek refuge in the caves. I beg you, take Marcellus and go.’

‘There are always rumours,’ Lupa said stubbornly. ‘Bagaudes, bandits. They’ve said such things for as long as I can remember, and nothing happens.’ She folded her arms. ‘I won’t leave you.’

‘It need not be for long.’

‘I shan’t go.’

Arinius turned to look at their son, lying on his back in the shade of a silver birch tree. Brown arms, brown legs against the pale blanket, kicking and stretching up into the air as if reaching to heaven. He smiled with pride. Marcellus was a joyful child, a happy baby. They barely ever heard him cry.

‘They say more than a hundred men are heading south,’ he said quietly. ‘An army.’

He picked up his son and Marcellus’ face lit up with pleasure. Although little more than a year old, he had, Arinius was certain, inherited his own gentle temperament. There was nothing fierce about the boy. Arinius had no doubt that if they had daughters, they would inherit their mother’s fighting spirit.

‘These men are not bandits,’ he said. ‘They come from beyond Lugdunum – perhaps even from beyond the great eastern river. Couzanium has been put to the torch, Aquis Calidis has been sacked. The people massacred where they stood.’

‘Do we know that to be true?’ Lupa said, tossing her long plait over her shoulder.

Arinius remembered the exhausted, bloodied messenger who had run for days through the forests, without resting, to carry the dreadful news, half crazed with the horror of what he had witnessed.

‘Yes,’ he said quietly.

Lupa faltered, but then continued. ‘Well, even if it is, Couzanium is many miles away. Two days’ walk, at least. There’s no reason why they should come this far.’

Despite his frustration, Arinius felt proud of her courage.

‘Lupa, you would be a great comfort to the others if you were with them,’ he said. ‘You know the mountains better than anyone. You know the safest places to hide until the soldiers leave. Help to keep the children safe.’ He paused. ‘You could stand in my stead. Pray for our deliverance.’

He saw her now reconsider. Lupa’s faith was, in some ways, stronger than his. In the valleys surrounding Tarasco, where Christianity had never previously shown its face, there was something in the people that accepted the presence of a single God in everything they saw in the world about them. In the rocks and the sky, the melody of the water as it came down from the mountains, in the crops growing on the southern slopes.

‘There are always rumours,’ she said, though her voice was less certain. ‘Why would they come so far? What could they hope to find here?’

Arinius laid Marcellus back down on his cloth.

‘The Empire is crumbling, Lupa. Divided. From the East, a new enemy has already taken much of the territory once claimed by Rome. They live by different laws. Have no respect for the lands they conquer.’

‘But you told me they are Christians, like us,’ Lupa threw back at him. ‘They believe what we believe. Why would they harm us?’

‘This is a battle for territory,’ he said. ‘It is not about faith, but power.’

Lupa stared at him. ‘But you told me that those who take up the sword in the name of God are not true Christians.’

Arinius sighed. ‘It is what I believe.’

‘It is against the Word,’ she said. ‘What you tell me scripture says. How can this be so?’

Arinius turned his head and looked up towards the Pic de Vicdessos and the cave where the Codex remained undisturbed. The texts that preached peace and tolerance had been destroyed. The spirit in which they had been written had been driven out of the Church. What he feared had come to pass. That those who lived in a state of grace were silenced and those who pursued faith through the sword had triumphed.

‘It is not for us to question the way God works in the world,’ he said.

Lupa raised her chin. ‘I cannot accept that. Why can I not think for myself?’

Arinius knew she was trying to deflect him. ‘When the time comes—’

‘If the time comes,’ she interrupted.

‘When the time comes, Lupa, you must promise you will take Marcellus and go with the other women and children.’ He took the bottle from around his neck and placed the leather strap over his wife’s slim, dark shoulders. ‘And when you do, you must take this.’

She looked at the iridescent glass. In two years, she knew he had never let it out of his sight. Knew that it was the most important thing he possessed, the reason he had come to Tarasco in the first place.

Now, she understood how serious he believed the situation to be. How he believed it might be the end of things.

‘No,’ she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. For several seconds, minutes, they stood locked in a gaze that shut out the rest of the world. Then she turned and looked out over the valley.

‘I cannot believe God will let anything happen to us. Not in so fine a world as this, a place like this. He will protect us.’

‘I pray that you are right,’ he said.

Arinius looked at his wife and saw a different expression on her face.

‘You will go then?’ he said.

Lupa wrapped her fingers around the green glass and he saw she had changed her mind. ‘When do you think they will come?’

He sighed with relief, though with grief too at the thought of losing her company. At being parted from his son. ‘I don’t know.’

‘No.’ She nodded. ‘Well, when the time does come, I will go.’

Arinius leant forward and kissed her on the forehead, felt her arms go around his waist. For a moment they stood there, clinging to one another for comfort. Then Marcellus let out a wail.

‘He’s hungry,’ Arinius said, releasing her.

Lupa nodded. ‘He is always hungry,’ she said with a smile. ‘Much like his father.’

Chapter 100

CARCASSONNE

JULY 1944

Sandrine raised her Walther P38 and took aim. She steadied her hand, squeezed the trigger and felt the revolver jump as the bullet left the chamber. A fraction of a second later, she heard the glass of the lamp marking the entrance to the Berriac tunnel shatter, and the railway was plunged into darkness.

She darted back into the undergrowth at the bottom of the steep slope that fell away from the railway track. Silence. If anyone had heard the shot, they weren’t coming to investigate. Still, she stayed in position for a moment longer. From her hiding place she could just make out the faint outline of the village houses a kilometre or so to the north. To the west, a little further away, the brighter lights of the cafés on the Canal du Midi in Trèbes, favoured by junior Nazi officers.

The Berriac tunnel was of great strategic importance. The line linked Carcassonne with Narbonne, forming part of the key west–east German supply lines. Food and ammunition were transported from the stores in the old hat factory in Montazels to the Wehrmacht and SS troops stationed on the coast. All the old beach resorts were garrisons now. There had been two attempts at sabotage in the past month, one closing the tunnel for twenty-four hours. But this was an unscheduled train and Sandrine was determined to stop it. So far, she had seen no French or German guards on the line.

She looked across the waiting land to the window of the tiny chapel where the candles would be lit as her sign to act when the convoy was approaching. She tucked the weapon back into her belt. She hoped she wouldn’t have to use the stolen gun again tonight.

Sandrine hated this dog-end time before an operation, the counting down to zero hour. It was the moment she ceased to be Sandrine Vidal, sister of Marianne, daughter of the late François Vidal, and became instead Sophie – résistante, saboteur, one of many still fighting the German occupation of the Aude.

Ever since the Nazis had crossed the demarcation line on 11 November 1942 and taken control of the rest of France, Sandrine had lived this double life. She, Marianne and Suzanne in Carcassonne, helped by Robert and Gaston Bonnet and – on the few occasions he’d risked coming into town – by Raoul. Geneviève, Liesl and Yves Rousset were in Coustaussa, with Eloise and Guillaume Breillac fighting in Tarascon. Together they made up the network known as ‘Citadel’, with the men who supported them, although no one but them used the name. So far, they had not been caught.

Sandrine glanced at her watch. Ten forty-five.

There was always a first time.

This last half-hour was always the worst. The time when dread took hold and the fear that, this time, their luck would run out. Her fingers, toes, bones, roots of her hair, her whole body itched with anticipation.

She hoped Marianne was bearing up. She was in the chapel, more a shrine really, outside the village, her hair covered by a country headscarf and her figure hidden beneath a drab coat. When Marianne heard the train coming, she would light four candles and exit by the main door, leaving a panier packed with explosives and fuses by the wooden chancel door for Suzanne to collect and deliver to the small electricity substation next to the track some five metres before the entrance to the tunnel. Suzanne would prime the device, then double back to where Robert Bonnet would be waiting on the Villedubert road. From that moment, Sandrine had to wait until the optimum moment to light the fuse, then get out of the way before the bomb went off.

Sandrine’s plan was to knock out the power and block the entrance to the tunnel at the same time. There was a key Wehrmacht munitions stores at Lézignan, halfway to Narbonne, where German troops were also billeted. If she succeeded, Nazi operations would be seriously compromised, for a day or two at least. But it was the sort of operation she hated most. So many things could go wrong: Robert might fail to get to the rendezvous on time to pick Marianne and Suzanne up; any one of the three of them might be seen; the device might not work or go off too soon. Sandrine took several deep breaths, settling the butterflies in her stomach. Suzanne was as good as they came, but several partisans had been injured – even killed – by their own home-made devices in the past few weeks.

It will go off all right, she told herself.

She rolled her shoulders, feeling the tightness in her muscles as she flexed and unflexed her hands.

Ten fifty-five.

Suddenly Sandrine saw a flicker of light through the plain glass window of the chapel. Twenty minutes early. She watched to make sure it was the signal, waiting as the pale flames grew stronger, then stronger again as Marianne lit each of the candles in turn. There was no mistake.

The instant she saw the fourth flame, Sandrine was on her feet. Nerves gone, her senses on high alert, adrenalin propelling her up the bank and towards the substation. Keeping as low as she could, she ran across the open ground. The main grid was in the upper storey of the squat, rectangular tower, three metres or so above ground level. The porcelain shields protecting the connectors shone an eerie white in the dark of the night.

The panier was in place. Sandrine crouched down and lifted the red and white chequered napkin from the top of the basket. A jumble of wires and pipe. As she located the fuse without touching anything, she could hear the hum of the tracks and the rattle of metal sliding over metal. She held her breath, listening and counting to gauge the speed of the train, then took a box of matches from her pocket. The flame guttered and flared, but went out. Sandrine slipped the match into her pocket, so as not to leave any evidence, then took another and scraped it along the strip. This time, the flame held steady.

With a practised hand, she leant forward and lit the fuse, hearing the cord hiss. She gave it two seconds, to check it had taken, then blew out the match, shoved the box back into her pocket, and ran.

The railway lines were humming louder now. Soon the buzz would be overtaken by the sound of the engine as the train thundered closer. Sandrine drove herself on, heading for the only available cover in the thicket. There wasn’t enough time to get back to her hiding place. As she threw herself down the bank, she heard a small crump, not much louder than a shotgun in fields in August. Then a massive explosion rent the air. Sandrine felt the force of it like a hand in her back, as she half flew, half rolled down the slope.

She took a second to gather her thoughts, then looked up, desperate to see, the blast ringing in her ears. She heard the shriek of the brakes, then the sound of metal connecting with rubble and concrete, the noise of the collision and derailment echoing through the silent countryside. She raised her head, feeling the heat on her face, watching as a golden cloud of flame, red, blue, leapt into the air. White light sparking as the electricity cables popped and fizzed like the Catherine wheels and Roman candles that used to engulf the walls of the Cité in Carcassonne on Bastille Day before the war. Before the occupation.

Before this life.

Sandrine let her breath out, all feeling suspended for a moment. Then, as always, self-preservation kicked in. She inhaled again, then, forcing the power into her tired legs, she turned and fled. This time she didn’t stop until she reached the cover of the wood. The bag with her change of clothes was waiting where she’d left it. A nondescript summer dress in place of shirt and trousers, a working woman’s headscarf instead of the black beret. Only her rubber-soled shoes might look incongruous. She rolled the clothes into a bundle, unfolded a mesh shopping bag from her pocket, and put them in beneath two damp cloths and a duster. So long as she wasn’t stopped and her bag searched, there was no reason for anyone to think she wasn’t a cleaner on her way home after her Monday-night shift.

It wasn’t until she saw the towers of the Cité in the distance that Sandrine heard the first of the sirens. She looked down from the Aire de la Pépinière as a fire truck, followed by a Feldgendarmerie truck and a black Citroën Traction Avant, the car favoured by the Gestapo, shrieked along the route de Narbonne towards Berriac.

She took a moment to catch her breath, then quickly carried on towards home. Going through residential areas, where there was less likely to be patrols, she avoided the Wehrmacht checkpoints on the Pont Neuf and arrived back in the Bastide as the bells were striking one. She turned into the rue de Lorraine, rather than the rue du Palais, so that she could get in through the back. Her fingers were crossed – as they always were at the end of an operation – that the others had made it safely home too.

Carefully, Sandrine opened the gate and glanced up at the Fournier house next door, to check that no midnight watcher was there. The windows were dark, shutters closed. She crossed the garden and ran up the steps, stopping to listen at the door before going in.

She felt a rush of relief at the sound of voices inside, then a moment of caution. She could hear Marianne and Suzanne, but a man was talking too. Sandrine frowned. Robert Bonnet never came to the house. She hesitated a moment longer, then opened the screen door a fraction to look, to see who it could possibly be at this time of night.

She caught her breath. It had been eight weeks. Eight long weeks. She hadn’t been expecting him. With a smile and a slight stumble of her heart, she pulled off the headscarf, shook out her hair and went into the kitchen.

‘Hello,’ she said lightly.

Raoul stood up. ‘Ma belle.’

Chapter 101

CHARTRES

‘This way, monsieur,’ said the housekeeper.

Leo Authié followed her through the mahogany-panelled entrance hall, past the tapestries and the dimly lit glass display cases. A flight of grand wooden stairs led up to the private rooms on the first floor. Beneath them, a small door led to the extensive wine cellar, which was, Authié knew from his personal experience, as good now as before the war.

In the past two years, Authié had been invited to the rue du Cheval Blanc on several occasions. The courtesies were always the same. Outside, the consequences of months of bombing. Rubble in the streets, the airport destroyed and the threat of Allied forces advancing through western France from Normandy. Here, in the shadow of the great Gothic cathedral, nothing had changed.

‘Monsieur de l’Oradore will be with you shortly,’ said the housekeeper, showing him into the library.

‘Thank you,’ he said, taking off his hat. Authié did not wear the uniform of the Milice, preferring to remain in civilian clothing as in his days of attachment to the Deuxième Bureau.

The library was more like a gentlemen’s club than a room in a private house, the atmosphere one of cigar smoke and old money. A large three-seat leather sofa stood beneath the window, and armchairs either side of the fireplace. The shutters were closed, with the blackout curtains drawn. A single lamp pooled yellow light on a side table. Bookshelves ran from floor to ceiling along three sides of the room, with sliding book ladders set on metal rails in the oak floorboards.

‘Ah, Authié.’ François Cecil-Baptiste de l’Oradore walked into the room, his hand outstretched in greeting. ‘Forgive me for getting you out of bed at such an unconscionable hour.’

‘I was still up, monsieur,’ Authié replied. However cordial his host appeared to be, there was never any question of them being friends.

The two men were of a similar age, both in their mid thirties. But where Authié was of medium height and broadly built, de l’Oradore was very tall and thin. His black hair, touched with grey, was swept back from a high forehead and prominent cheekbones. He was, as always, immaculately dressed and had clearly come from dinner. A white dress shirt, bow tie, silver cufflinks just visible beneath the sleeves of his jacket, and a purple cummerbund. Like Authié, he wore a crucifix pin on his lapel.

‘Good of you to come all the same,’ de l’Oradore said, waving his hand to indicate that Authié should sit down. ‘Please.’

Whatever the matter was, it had to be serious for de l’Oradore to summon him at one o’clock in the morning.

‘Smoke?’ He offered a box of Cuban cigars.

Authié shook his head. ‘No thank you,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you, Monsieur de l’Oradore?’

His host sat on the sofa and rested his arm along the back. ‘The situation in Chartres is, how shall I put it, precarious.’

‘But Montgomery and his troops have failed to advance,’ Authié said.

De l’Oradore waved his hand dismissively. ‘I’m sure the Panzer divisions are more than capable of containing them, yes,’ he said. ‘However, my most pressing concern is the question of safeguarding my collection. A great many of the pieces – in particular the thirteenth-century books and manuscripts – are irreplaceable.’

As well as the wine cellar, Authié was aware there were extensive other chambers beneath the house. In May, there had been an attempted burglary. Two Waffen-SS officers who had been dining with de l’Oradore that night in the rue du Cheval Blanc had shot the intruders. Authié had been summoned to dispose of the bodies.

He had never seen the extent of the underground space, but he knew de l’Oradore was one of the most successful private collectors in France. Jewellery, tapestries, medieval manuscripts. At the centre of his collection were objects acquired from Napoleon’s Egyptian expeditions at the end of the eighteenth century. Recently, these had been supplemented by pieces from the Galerie Nationale du Jeu de Paume in Paris, amongst other galleries. Works stolen from Jewish deportees and artists.

‘Do you not consider your storage facilities here to be adequate?’ Authié asked carefully.

‘They will be of little use should Allied troops reach the city.’

Authié paused. He had not thought things so serious. Thanks to his position, his information about the truth of matters between the Axis and Allied forces was good. But de l’Oradore’s intelligence was better.

‘Are there reasons to think that is an imminent possibility?’ he asked.

Now it was de l’Oradore’s turn to pause. ‘There are rumours that more American troops will disembark on the northern coast,’ he said eventually. There was no suggestion of alarm or fear in his voice, only the thoughtful concern of a businessman for his investments. ‘I am sure the threat is exaggerated, but, as a precaution, there are certain objects I intend to remove from Chartres until the situation is clear.’

‘To Berlin?’

He shook his head. ‘America.’

‘I see.’

‘My intention is to close up the house.’ He fixed Authié with a sharp look. ‘I would like you, therefore, to return to Carcassonne. To resume the investigations for which I engaged you in the first instance.’

Authié was surprised, though he kept his expression impassive. He wondered what had changed. De l’Oradore had suspended his search for the Cathar treasure, after the Nazis had invaded the zone libre, without explanation. For nearly two years he had not mentioned it. His interests appeared to have shifted.

‘I thought you were of the opinion that there was no value in continuing to excavate the area around Montségur or Lombrives?’

‘There is a suggestion,’ de l’Oradore said, ‘that a Languedocien scholar, one of the significant authorities on the history of the region, might have information. It could influence where we look next. I want you to find him, Authié. See if there is any substance to this rumour.’

‘How has this new information come to us?’

‘That bookseller of yours. Saurat.’

Authié narrowed his eyes, remembering the strange man with his high-pitched voice and his dark bookshop in Toulouse.

‘Saurat?’ he said. ‘Is it possible I could talk to him myself?’

‘I regret he is no longer with us. He was arrested in Lyon. Helping the partisans, it seems. He was very helpful, however. The information he shared seems credible.’

Authié was not convinced, but he kept his expression neutral. He was aware of the reputation of Hauptsturmführer Barbie, head of the Gestapo in Lyon. Many suspects would say anything, true or false, to bring their interrogation to an end.

‘There is a transcript of the conversation,’ de l’Oradore added, perhaps sensing Authié’s scepticism. ‘If that would be useful.’

‘It would, thank you.’ There was nothing to be gained by voicing his true opinion or going against de l’Oradore’s orders.

‘This scholar Saurat mentioned, is he attached to the university in Toulouse?’

‘An author rather than an academic, I gather.’

‘I see,’ Authié said again. ‘Do you have a name? An address?’

De l’Oradore pulled an envelope from his pocket. ‘He’s called Audric S. Baillard. I’ve heard of him, in fact. Quite an expert on Ancient Egypt. Wrote a biography of Champollion, the man who first deciphered hieroglyphic text.’ He paused. ‘Baillard lives in some tiny village in the Pyrenees. Los Seres.’ He handed the envelope to Authié. ‘It’s all here. I can’t imagine he’ll be hard to find; he’s an old man, judging by the date of publication of most of his books. He might also know something about a book I am most interested in acquiring. Extremely interested. To complete part of my collection here, you understand. Medieval. Perhaps with the symbol of a labyrinth on the cover, distinctive. I have had these notes prepared for you. To help the process.’ He fixed Authié with a look. ‘I would be most appreciative of any information. However you see fit to acquire it. Do you understand me, Authié?’

Authié took the heavy cream envelope and put it in his breast pocket. ‘I do.’

De l’Oradore held his gaze for a moment longer, then glanced away. ‘I have spoken to your superior officer, who is prepared to release you immediately. I have arranged transport south for Friday. Bastille Day, rather appropriate, I thought. The announcement has already been given to the radio stations.’

‘Announcement?’

‘That you are taking over the battle against the Resistance. Who better than a local man? Take Laval with you.’ He gave a slight smile, then stood up. ‘Congratulations on your promotion, Major Authié.’

Authié also got to his feet, impressed by the extent of de l’Oradore’s influence.

‘I hope to live up to your faith in me,’ he said.

‘I hope so too.’ De l’Oradore paused. ‘I know you have made several visits to the south in recent weeks, Authié.’

‘I have.’

‘Satisfactory?’

‘Effective, certainly.’

‘Will you be pleased to return for good, I wonder?’

Authié met his cool, appraising gaze. They both knew he had no choice. It would have made no difference if he hadn’t wanted to return to the Midi. But he took care over his answer all the same.

‘I have very much enjoyed my time in Chartres, but of course I am happy to do whatever best serves our cause.’

‘Quite right,’ said de l’Oradore. From the slight smile on his face, Authié knew he had said the right thing.

Perhaps to underline Authié’s new position, de l’Oradore showed him through the dimly lit hall to the front door himself, rather than ringing for the housekeeper.

‘Keep me informed, Authié. Send any communications via the normal route. I shall be travelling, of course, but any message will get to me, even if it takes longer than usual.’

‘Of course.’ Authié put on his hat. ‘I am grateful for your support, monsieur.’

De l’Oradore opened the front door on to the dark street. No street lamps; the blackout was rigorously observed after months of night-time bombardments on Luftwaffe aircraft at Champhol airfield to the northeast of Chartres. In the moonlight, the twin spires of the magnificent cathedral stood tall against the sky.

‘By the way,’ de l’Oradore said, ‘Saurat said something else of interest before he died.’

‘He did?’

‘About that alleged fourth-century text you brought me. The Codex.’

Authié became still. ‘Alleged?’

‘It appears it was a forgery,’ de l’Oradore continued casually. ‘Saurat admitted he’d known, even though he authenticated it. The Ahnenerbe have confirmed it. A very high-quality forgery, but fake all the same.’ He paused. ‘Good night, Major Authié. I shall expect to hear from you when you have settled in on Friday.’

The door was closed before Authié had the chance to react. He stared at the painted door, the polished handles and letter box. He realised that de l’Oradore’s timing of the information about the Codex was deliberate. He had been set the challenge to find Audric Baillard to compensate, in part, for his mistake with Saurat.

For two years, Authié had regretted handing the Codex to de l’Oradore. He’d assumed he would destroy it as a heretical text, although perhaps not before analysing it to test the truth of the power it was said to contain. Instead, he had given it immediately into the custody of the Ahnenerbe, where it had remained ever since.

Now, it seemed, there might still be a need to find the true Codex. For himself. To do what he should have done in the first place: put his loyalty to the Church above his loyalty to de l’Oradore.

Authié turned and walked quickly along the rue du Cheval Blanc, a cold anger growing inside him. Saurat was beyond his reach, but Raoul Pelletier was not. Sandrine Vidal was not. Someone must have hidden the forgery in the cave within the Col de Pyrène. Pelletier? And Vidal had told him of the discovery, in innocence or put up to it, it didn’t matter. He would find out soon enough.

At the front of the great Gothic cathedral, he stopped and looked up at the three stone arches of the Royal Portal. A book in stone, Authié had heard it called. Not only New Testament images of redemption and faith, but also older stories of judgement and vengeance from the Old Testament.

He hesitated a moment, turning over in his mind what de l’Oradore had said about the medieval book. If this Baillard knew about that, as well as having information about the Codex, Authié did not think it would be difficult to persuade him to talk.

He knew God was on his side. He was doing God’s will.

Authié looked up at the west Rose Window, depicting Christ’s Second Coming as judge. To condemn all those who had turned away from the true faith. To save only those who had adhered to the precepts of the Church. In the faint light of the moon, the blood red and death blue of the glass was just visible.

He lingered a moment longer, then gathered himself. There were few résistants left operational in the centre of Chartres, after another successful raid last week, but his face was known. It only needed one lone marksman. Authié walked fast until he reached the cover of the rue des Changes.

The time was right to return to the Midi. He would find Audric Baillard for de l’Oradore. Then he would hunt down Pelletier and Vidal for himself.

Chapter 102

CARCASSONNE

‘We should get going,’ Sandrine said.

‘All right, little man,’ said Lucie, leaning over the pram. ‘Off to get the bread. You like to fetch the bread with Mama, don’t you, J-J?’

Jean-Jacques looked up at her with sleepy eyes, surprised to be out in the morning so early, but he smiled all the same. Perhaps it was too early to say, but he didn’t appear to be short-sighted like his father.

While Lucie continued to fuss and tuck in his blankets tightly again, making sure the sheets of blank paper hidden underneath the mattress could not be seen, Sandrine glanced up at her bedroom window. Inside, Raoul was sleeping. He was even thinner than when she’d last seen him in May and, like they all were, exhausted. There had been several Allied parachute drops recently that had missed their target and much-needed weapons hadn’t got through. There had been many arrests too. Raoul looked worn out and it had taken all her self-control to leave him and carry on as planned. But it was essential to get the news out of the attack on the Berriac tunnel before the Nazi and Milice propaganda machine got going. Besides, Raoul needed to sleep. They would have time to talk as soon as she got back.

Lucie was still fussing. She seemed full of jitters this morning, Sandrine thought. She bent forward and kissed her godson on the top of his head. Jean-Jacques wrinkled his nose, his podgy hand flapping at the air.

‘No!’

In her panier, Sandrine had a piece of rotting fish wrapped in newspaper – designed to put off even the most zealous of Wehrmacht patrols. Beneath the fish was a roll of film from Liesl that Raoul had brought, and her copy about the sabotage of the Berriac tunnel.

‘I know,’ Sandrine whispered to the boy, ‘it’s an awful stink.’ She pinched her nose. ‘But it will keep the nasty soldiers from talking to us, J-J, so we don’t mind, do we?’

Jean-Jacques giggled. ‘Gun, gun,’ he said. ‘Gun, bang.’

Lucie raised her eyebrows. ‘I can’t imagine what his father would say.’

Sandrine smiled. Lucie always talked as if Max was with them. She’d not seen him since that day in Le Vernet in August 1942, though she wrote every week. The waitress in the Café de la Paix in Le Vernet village sent news of the camp when she could. It pained Lucie not to be able to tell Max anything about their son, the things he did or the words he was starting to speak. But she was keeping a diary, so Max would be able to read about J-J’s first few years when he came home. She behaved as if it was never in doubt that Max would come back.

Sandrine wasn’t sure if Lucie believed it, or was putting on a good face. Ever since the invasion of the zone nono and the arrival of German soldiers on the streets of the Bastide, the deportations of Jewish prisoners from camps in the Ariège had accelerated. For whatever reason – perhaps his skill with languages, or the constant enquiries by Marianne’s Croix-Rouge colleagues – Max had been lucky. Lucie, she suspected, was still inclined to put it down to Authié’s intervention, though she never said as much and Sandrine didn’t ask.

In the last few weeks, though, things had changed. The Allied landings in the north of France in June proved the tide was turning against the Axis forces, whatever the newspapers claimed. As a reaction, the number of Jewish prisoners being deported from Le Vernet was being stepped up. To a place called Dachau, in Bavaria, a camp on the site of an old munitions factory, so she’d heard. Sandrine knew of no one who had ever been released from that camp. She didn’t know how Lucie would manage if Max’s name was finally put on the list.

Lucie had stayed in Coustaussa with Liesl and Marieta until Jean-Jacques was born, but country living didn’t suit her at all, and in the summer of 1943, she had come back to Carcassonne. A fille-mère, an unmarried mother as the result of a one-night stand with a soldier, was the story put about. Her position was difficult, but by keeping Jean-Jacques’ paternity a secret, she kept her son safe. Since Suzanne lived mostly at the rue du Palais, Lucie lodged with Suzanne’s mother and worked in a haberdasher’s shop near the station owned by one of Madame Peyre’s friends. Her distinctive blonde hair had gone, returned to its natural sparrow brown, and she was thin. She dressed in plain dresses designed not to attract attention, rather than the trim two-pieces she’d worn before the war. Once, she had run into her father in the Bastide. He had frowned slightly, as if trying to recall where he knew her from, but had not recognised her.

‘Ready for the off?’ Sandrine asked.

‘As I’ll ever be, kid.’

Sandrine smiled. Lucie gave the same response every time. She wasn’t really involved, though from time to time – like this morning – she was prepared to run an errand. She felt the best way to help keep Max safe was to do nothing to draw attention. To follow the rules. She had no idea Sandrine, Suzanne and Marianne did anything more than produce an underground newspaper.

‘Kid, kid, kid,’ sang Jean-Jacques. At seventeen months, he was already talkative, keen to try words and sounds out loud.

Lucie’s expression softened for a moment, then she handed him a crust of stale bread and put her finger to her lips.

‘Nice and quiet, mon brave. Quiet.’

Jean-Jacques’ eyes grew wide. Sandrine, too, put her finger to her lips and puffed out her lips, as if blowing out the candles on a birthday cake. The little boy copied.

‘Ssshh,’ he whispered loudly. ‘J-J quiet.’

They walked towards boulevard Antoine Marty, the front wheel of the perambulator squeaking horribly loudly in the quiet of the morning. Their shoes, too, were noisy. Like everyone else, they were having to make do with wooden soles when the leather wore through.

‘Who’s there to meet us?’ Lucie asked.

‘Gaston. Suzanne will come later when the sheets are ready to be distributed.’

The idea for a weekly newspaper had been Sandrine’s. Inspired by the underground press in northern France, after the Germans had invaded the South she had produced the first copy of Libertat – the Occitan word for freedom. She wrote the editorials, articles on atrocities carried out by the Milice, naming collaborationists, passing on information about successful Resistance raids. From time to time they published photographs. Geneviève or Eloise smuggled films from Liesl – of munitions depots, troop movements, leading Gestapo or SS officers, the layout of prisons – to Carcassonne. Suzanne was in charge of the printing, Marianne arranged the distribution, Robert and Gaston Bonnet delivered the newspapers to their couriers. Lucie kept the machines in working order. A childhood spent in her father’s garage had given her a useful knowledge of all things mechanical.

Sandrine’s aim was to highlight the continuing, worsening crimes of Vichy and to expose ‘la barbarie nazie’. Libertat was only one of several partisan newspapers – Combat, Libération, Humanité, Le Courrier du Témoignage Chrétien, Libérer and La Vie ouvrière – each attempting to counteract the increasingly hysterical collaborationist and Nazi propaganda. Every week, tracts were discovered in a suitcase under a bench at the railway station in Lézignan, or pushed under the doors of cafés in the centre of Limoux during the night, or left in the bus depot in Narbonne.

Sandrine reserved her harshest criticism for the Milice, the Frenchmen who collaborated and did the occupiers’ work for them. Formed at the beginning of 1943, the Milice was an amalgamation of the various Rightist groups. In Carcassonne, it had been under the control of Albert Kromer until February, when the Resistance finally succeeded in assassinating him. Their next-door neighbour, Monsieur Fournier, had been killed in the same attack. Lucie’s father was a member, like most of the former LVF members who met at the Café Edouard.

Carcassonne was now a city at war with itself. After two years of living a double life, Sandrine divided the Bastide into places she could go and places she should not. The Feldgendarmerie, under Chef Shröbel, occupied the white stucco building on the corner of boulevard Maréchal Pétain, overlooking the Palais du Justice, where the Deuxième Bureau had been based. The counter-espionage bureau, Abwehr, had established itself in Boulevard Barbès. The Laperrine barracks, where once the mothers of Carcassonne had waved their husbands and sons off to war in 1914, was now the headquarters of the SS, and the Gestapo headquarters was on the route de Toulouse. Of all the commanders of the Aude, Chef Eckfelner and Sous-chef Schiffner, who led the hunt against partisans, were the most vicious.

It was not just their future and their present that was being taken away from them, but their past too. The vert-de-gris had occupied the medieval Cité. A landmark of local pride and international significance, it was now closed to civilians. No ordinary citizens were allowed past the Porte Narbonnaise without a work permit. Sometimes, when Sandrine looked across the water to the majestic towers and turrets, she was almost relieved that her father hadn’t lived to suffer the sight of the ‘green-and-grey’ walking through the cobbled streets, drinking cognac in the lounge of the Hôtel de la Cité. Standing on the battlements where once Viscount Trencavel had commanded his men to stand firm against the northern crusaders. Where Dame Carcas had deceived Charlemagne.

Almost relieved.

For some time, Sandrine felt they were working alone. Then, on 27 January 1943 – the same day Lucie had given birth to Jean-Jacques – the disparate partisan groups were brought together as the Mouvements Unis de Résistance, under the leadership of Jean Moulin. The southern zone had been carved into six divisions. The Aude was R3 and the Ariège R4. Ranks and passes, a structure of order and command and control was established. Sandrine heard the code names whispered – ‘Myriel’, ‘Bels’, ‘Frank’, ‘Le Rouquin’ (because of his red hair), ‘Robespierre’ and ‘Danton’. She would not have recognised any of them if she’d passed them in the street. Nor they her.

As well as Sandrine’s code name, ‘Sophie’, Suzanne was ‘André’ and Marianne was ‘Catherine’. Christian names only, unlike their male counterparts. Raoul and Robert Bonnet knew them, but no one else. It wasn’t a question of not trusting Liesl or Geneviève, or Eloise and Guillaume Breillac, but common sense. The less one knew, the less one could be forced to tell. Jean Moulin had been murdered only six months after forming the MUR – caught by, or betrayed to, the Gestapo – but after a month of torture in the notorious Lyon prison, he died without revealing anything. Without giving anyone’s name away.

‘Are you all right?’ Lucie said, her voice cutting into Sandrine’s reflections. ‘You seem tired.’

Sandrine blushed. ‘I didn’t sleep much,’ she said.

‘Ssshh,’ said the little boy, holding his finger again to his lips. ‘J-J dodo.’

Sandrine and Lucie smiled. ‘That’s right, Jean-Jacques. Everyone’s sleeping,’ Sandrine whispered. ‘We mustn’t wake them up.’

‘Dodo,’ he said loudly.

‘Bubi,’ Lucie said quickly. ‘Hush now, that’s my little man.’ He looked at her with his wide brown eyes, but immediately became quiet. ‘He looks so like Max when he does that, doesn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ Sandrine nodded, though in truth she could hardly remember what Max looked like.

Even after everything that had happened, Sandrine still felt a residual sense of guilt when she thought about Max. Remembering the morning with the Croix-Rouge at the railway station in Carcassonne and wondering if there was anything she could have done to stop him being taken. She knew it was pointless to think that way, but she did. Somehow it made keeping secrets from Lucie seem even worse.

They walked on, the wheels of the pram rattling on the pavement, a little further into the heart of the Bastide. The sound of the carts delivering milk and the bakers transporting bread to the German garrison in the Hôtel Terminus.

‘Did you hear someone blew up the line at Berriac last evening?’

Sandrine hesitated, tempted for a moment to confide in her. But then common sense prevailed. It was better that Lucie didn’t know. Safer for them all.

‘They?’

‘Resistance, I suppose. And it makes sense,’ Lucie said, stumbling over the words, ‘that’s to say, of what I heard on the wireless.’

Sandrine glanced at her. ‘What did they say on the wireless?’

‘I don’t know if it’s true, of course. They so often get these things wrong, don’t they?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lucie,’ Sandrine said. ‘What makes sense?’

‘There was an item on the wireless. I wasn’t listening properly, so I might have misunderstood. They were talking about how since the head of the Milice in Carcassonne was killed . . . I can’t remember his name.’

‘Albert Kromer,’ Sandrine said.

‘Yes, they said that since he was killed in January, the number of attacks on the Milice has gone up.’

‘That’s true enough,’ Sandrine agreed.

Both the Maquis and the Resistance units – ‘Citadel’ among them – had become bolder after having claimed the scalp of such a high-profile target as Kromer. Two weeks ago, with Suzanne’s help, Sandrine had broken into the Milice offices in Place Carnot and burnt a stack of recruitment posters. As soon as any new poster was put up in the street, partisans defaced them with the Cross of Lorraine, symbol of the Resistance, using penknives or white ink. But better to destroy them at source. In retaliation, the Milice had raided a café on the rue de l’Aigle d’Or.

‘So,’ Lucie continued, ‘the bulletin also said that although the Milice and Germans were winning the battle against the insurgents—’

‘Rot!’

‘That’s what they said,’ Lucie said defensively.

‘It’s what they always say.’

‘Also that although the Germans were winning,’ Lucie continued, ‘increasing numbers of local men and women were supporting the partisans.’

Sandrine nodded. The number of maquisards had been growing and growing, ever since the STO had been introduced in February 1943. A draft to send men to munitions factories or farms in Germany to support the Nazi war effort, the Service de Travail Obligatoire had been voluntary, but soon became compulsory. Food, shelter, messages. A car left with fuel and the keys in the ignition. All ways that ordinary men and women could help. In recent weeks, even Wehrmacht soldiers were deserting and joining the Maquis.

But the cost was high and the reprisals were becoming increasingly vicious. Two days ago, a German unit, supported by local Milice, had launched an attack on the Villebazy Maquis in their forest hideout to the east of Limoux. A warning had got through and the maquisards had fled, so the troops had turned on the villagers instead. Several men were arrested, hostages taken and houses ransacked. One man was dead.

‘The point is . . .’ Lucie took a deep breath. ‘The point is, they said that because of all this, a high-ranking commander from the north is being brought in to lead the offensive against the insurgents in the Aude.’

Sandrine thought about the latest rumours. Entire villages being rounded up. In June, nearly a hundred people murdered at Tulle and nearly seven hundred at Oradour-sur-Glane near Limoges. Closer to home, stories of hostages being taken and summary executions, most recently in Chalabre, to the west of Limoux. The authorities denied any such atrocity had taken place.

‘Sandrine?’ Lucie said anxiously.

‘I’m sorry,’ Sandrine said, forcing herself to stop thinking about things she couldn’t do anything about. ‘Sorry, I am listening.’

‘They said his name, you see, that’s what got my attention.’

Without warning, Sandrine’s mild impatience with Lucie transformed into a sick, sharp fear. Immediately, she realised. Realised what Lucie was struggling to say and why she was finding it so hard to get the words out.

‘Did they say who it was?’ she asked, although she already knew the answer. ‘Did they give a name?’

Lucie raised her head and looked her in the eye. ‘Leo Authié.’

Chapter 103

‘Captain Authié.’

‘Major now,’ Lucie said in a rush. ‘I thought you’d want to know.’

Sandrine stared blindly, then pulled herself together. ‘Yes, of course I do.’ She paused. ‘Did the bulletin say when he was taking up the position?’

‘No.’

‘Or if he was to be based in the Milice headquarters in Place Carnot? In Carcassonne?’

‘I don’t think so. I’m sorry.’

Sandrine fell silent. Authié was a malignant presence in the corner of her mind, always there even though the fear he inspired in her had become weaker as the months – years – had passed without anything happening.

When she’d come back to Carcassonne in August 1942, Sandrine had expected to see Authié or his deputy, Sylvère Laval, on every street corner. She’d anticipated the knock at the door. Then in October, Raoul managed to confirm that, having consulted Monsieur Saurat in Toulouse, Authié had gone on to Chartres and remained there. There was no record of him returning to the Midi at all.

Nonetheless, that autumn and winter, Sandrine still avoided walking past the headquarters of the Deuxième Bureau on boulevard Maréchal Pétain and kept her ear to the ground for any gossip. She even listened to the hated Radio Paris, but heard nothing. Not a whisper.

Then in November the Germans crossed the demarcation line and everything changed. The headquarters of the Deuxième Bureau were occupied by the Feldgendarmerie. The enemy was now everywhere, in possession of the streets of the Bastide and the Cité. There was more to contend with than Leo Authié.

Since then, Sandrine had come across Authié’s name only twice. The first time was in a pro-Nazi newspaper, in November 1943. A class at the lycée where Marianne worked had staged a protest on the first anniversary of the invasion of the Midi, marching around the courtyard with placards and singing ‘La Marseillaise’, banned since the occupation. The girls, children all of them, had been suspended for fifteen days, but their point was made. Walking through Square Gambetta later that afternoon, Sandrine had seen a copy of Le Matin lying on a bench. She’d picked it up and been taken by surprise by a photograph of Leo Authié with two SS-Obergruppenführer officers. She had thrust the newspaper into the nearest rubbish bin, feeling contaminated by having even touched it.

The second time was eight weeks ago. Marianne had shown her an article in L’Echo, commending the joint efforts of the Chartres Milice and their ‘German guests’ in preventing an attack on a private museum in the city. Authié hadn’t changed. A little broader perhaps, but the same hateful expression of condescension and arrogance. He was being honoured by Nazi High Command for having masterminded a series of raids against – as the editorial put it – ‘agitators, saboteurs and terrorists’. Sandrine still remembered the exact words, though her abiding memory was one of swooping relief at knowing Authié was still in the North.

In Chartres, not Carcassonne.

‘The thing is,’ Lucie was saying, ‘I was giving Jean-Jacques his breakfast, so I wasn’t really paying attention. It was just his name. Because I wasn’t expecting it, it jumped out at me.’

‘I know,’ Sandrine said, not really listening.

On impulse, Sandrine suddenly turned round and looked back in the direction they had come. At the empty street stretching out behind them in the early morning sunshine. What if Authié was already back in Carcassonne? All she wanted to do now was run back to the house, where Raoul was sleeping, and tell him to get out while he had the chance. Before Authié came looking for him.

‘Do you remember the drive that day from Le Vernet?’ Lucie said quietly. ‘That lieutenant of his, staring at us all the time. He gave me the creeps.’

‘Yes,’ Sandrine said.

‘Sandrine, you don’t think . . .’ Lucie stopped again. ‘You don’t think, if Authié finds out about Jean-Jacques, he’ll put two and two together?’

‘What? No, of course not,’ she said quickly, guilty she’d been thinking only about herself and Raoul. She focused her attention on Lucie. ‘There’s no reason why you should run into him at all. Anyway, it was a long time ago. You didn’t even show then.’ She put her hand over Lucie’s on the handle of the pram. ‘Don’t worry.’

‘Because if they try to take him, I—’

‘No one’s going to take Jean-Jacques from you,’ said Sandrine firmly. ‘It’ll be fine.’

They continued along rue Antoine Marty with the rising sun at their heels and the squeak of the pram filling the quiet morning air. Jean-Jacques chatted quietly to himself, forming sweet, meaningless sounds.

They turned right, then left into the narrow alley that ran parallel with the route de Minervois. The baby let out a sudden shriek of delight at the rare sight of a pigeon sitting on a windowsill in the shadows. Most of the city’s birds had been caught and eaten.

‘Bird!’

‘Jean-Jacques, quiet!’ Sandrine snapped sharply.

The little boy stared at her, shocked she had raised her voice to him. Sandrine was immediately contrite, but also angry she’d let Authié get under her skin already. She bent over the pram.

‘Sorry, J-J, but it’s important we are quiet, do you see? We mustn’t disturb the bird. The bird is sleeping. Sshh.’

He nodded, but his eyes were wary.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, to Lucie this time.

They walked the rest of the way to the print shop in silence. For some time after César’s murder, the darkroom beneath the Café des Deux Gares had sat empty. Suzanne had discovered it was still operational, and between them they had got it up and running.

Sandrine knocked on the side door that gave into the alley. Three sharp taps, pause; three sharp taps, pause; then another three sharp taps. She heard footsteps, then the welcome rattle of the chain and the key being turned in the lock. Gaston Bonnet’s face appeared in the doorway.

She didn’t like Gaston much – he drank and he was abrasive – but Robert vouched for him and Marianne said he was always reliable in helping to distribute Libertat to their couriers, so Sandrine put up with him.

‘Got it?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

Sandrine folded back the pram blanket, Lucie held up the mattress, and they started to unpack the paper and hand the sheets to Gaston.

‘Not much,’ he said.

‘All I could find at such short notice,’ Sandrine said.

He shrugged. ‘Have to do, then.’

It was difficult to get hold of enough ink and paper these days. Robert’s lady friend, Yvette, was a cleaner at Gestapo headquarters and, smuggling it out beneath her dusters and mop, she stole paper for them, one or two sheets at a time. But she had been laid low this week with a stomach bug and had not gone to work, so their stocks were running low.

‘That’s the last of it,’ said Lucie. She flipped the blanket back over J-J’s feet. ‘Shall we go and look at the boats, little man?’ she said. ‘Say hello to the lock keeper?’

‘Thank you, Lucie,’ Sandrine said quietly. ‘And remember what I said. Everything will be fine.’

Lucie gave a salute, and continued on down the alley towards the Canal du Midi. Sandrine watched her go, then followed Gaston inside. She locked and bolted the door.

‘What’s the stink?’ he said.

Sandrine prodded the fish. ‘There’s a film I need developing. Didn’t want anyone tempted to take a closer look.’

Gaston grunted.

‘She’s in the darkroom,’ he said, picking up the pile of paper. ‘I’ll take this down and get the machine ready to print.’

Sandrine smiled her thanks, then went down the steps to the basement and knocked to let Suzanne know she had arrived.

‘It’s all right to come in,’ she called from inside.

The darkroom was lit by a dim red lamp in the ceiling. Supplies were running low and the long slatted shelves were mostly empty. A single bottle of developing fluid, an enlarger and a dryer for prints. Suzanne had left the house before it was light, evading the curfew in order to get things ready.

She glanced at Sandrine. ‘Everything all right? You look tired.’

‘I’m fine,’ Sandrine said, then lowered her voice. ‘Lucie heard something on the wireless about Leo Authié being posted back to Carcassonne.’

Suzanne grew still. ‘When?’

‘She didn’t know.’

‘What are you going to do?’

Sandrine shook her head. For the first time in a long while, she thought of Monsieur Baillard and how much she would value his advice. Nothing had been seen or heard of him since that night two years ago in Tarascon after they had hidden the forgery in the caves of Col de Pyrène. She couldn’t bring herself to accept he might be dead.

‘After we’ve finished here, I’ll see if I can speak to Jeanne Giraud,’ Suzanne said. ‘Her husband often hears things before anyone else. Some of the résistants talk under anaesthetic.’

Sandrine nodded her thanks. ‘It would be good to know how much time we’ve got, at least.’

Suzanne stared at her, then carried on. ‘Right,’ she said in her normal voice. ‘Have you written the copy for printing?’

Trying to push thoughts of Authié from her mind, Sandrine took the film from her panier.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but will you develop this first? Raoul brought it from Liesl last night.’

In the dim red glow, Sandrine watched as Suzanne got the temperature of the tank just right, then enervated the fluid so that the film would develop evenly. She took the film out of the casing and put it in the solution to give it time to develop. Sandrine washed her hands in the sink, trying to get rid of the smell of fish.

As soon as the negatives were ready, Suzanne pinned them on the wire above the wooden counter and waited for them to dry. They watched as the hateful images revealed themselves. Ten photographs in all, each of partisans in the course of being executed. In one, five men lay face down on the ground, four clearly dead already, a milicien standing with his foot on the back of the fifth as he delivered the coup de grâce. In another photograph, the suspended bodies of two résistants, hands bound and hooded, left hanging low beneath a bridge so that every vehicle that passed hit their feet. Sandrine could see their swollen toes, feet broken, the ankle bones jutting out through blistered skin.

Her jaw tightened.

‘Where did Liesl get these shots?’ Suzanne asked quietly.

‘I think it’s Chalabre,’ Sandrine said, struggling to contain her anger. ‘The authorities deny anything happened. Here’s the proof we need.’ She looked at Suzanne. ‘Can you give me fifteen minutes to write something?’

‘What about the Berriac report?’

‘It’ll have to share the page,’ she said. ‘This is just as important. More so.’

Sandrine sat at the counter. She thought for a moment, then wrote her headline: POUR ARRÊTER LES CRIMES DE LA GESTAPO ET MILICE.

She looked up at the images once more, seeing now the clear imprint of a soldier’s boot on the back of a dead woman’s leg. Suzanne was putting the negatives through the enlarger to make the prints.

‘Sandrine,’ she said in a low voice. ‘You’d better take a look at this.’ She adjusted the focus. ‘There, can you see?’

‘What am I looking for?’

‘Look. In the top right-hand corner of the shot. The man in charge?’

Sandrine leant forward. The officer was turning away from the camera, his face partly obscured by his hat, but there was no doubt about it.

‘It is him, isn’t it?’ said Suzanne.

Sandrine nodded. She felt cold. Not fear, she realised, but anger.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s Authié.’

Chapter 104

BANYULS-SUR-MER

Audric Baillard fell against the prisoner next to him as the van jerked to a halt. His shoulder jutted into the man’s side. A skeleton, no flesh on his bones, his life all but beaten out of him. Baillard nodded an apology, but the brutalised eyes saw nothing.

Baillard recognised the look of surrender. The moment when, having survived years of mistreatment and privation, a man gave up the fight.

‘It will not be much longer,’ Audric whispered, though he suspected his words were unheard.

They had been travelling for two days, though not covering much ground. The heat, the stench of despair and sickness. In the very early hours of Saturday morning, when it was still dark, they had been woken and told that the entire camp, a satellite to the main internment camp at Rivesaltes, was being evacuated. All prisoners were being sent elsewhere. To other camps or factories in Germany.

Baillard had been among the last to leave – in a convoy of eight cattle trucks with slatted wooden sides rather than military transport. They were all old men, weakened by months – in some cases years – of starvation and hard labour, too old to be considered a high risk. They were handcuffed, but not shackled, and when they stopped en route, the guards allowed them out. In any case, it was pointless to argue with the barrel of a gun.

Baillard was surprised when the convoy headed south, rather than north. Along the coast, not away from it. From Rivesaltes to Argelès, from Argelès to Collioure, where they spent the night. Finally, at dawn this morning, from Collioure to Port-Vendres, close to the Spanish border. They were given a little water, no food. Their first escort had been Milice, then yesterday they were handed over to the Germans. Now Baillard could hear French being spoken again. It made little sense.

The prisoner beside him had closed his eyes. A blue vein pulsed faintly in his neck. Baillard could see the skull beneath the skin and knew the man was dying.

‘Peyre sant,’ he murmured, praying for the safe delivery of his soul. The man gave no reaction.

Baillard put his cuffed hands to his cracked lips. For a moment rage burned in his amber eyes as he remembered others who had died. Friends incarcerated within the walls of a prison. In the stone dungeons of the Cité in Carcassonne or Saint-Étienne in Toulouse many years ago. In Montluc. The trains leaving from Gurs and Le Vernet, going to the death camps in the East: Drancy and Auschwitz, Belsen, Buchenwald and Dachau. Names of places he had heard, but never seen.

He let out a long exhalation of breath, as if expelling the poison from his lungs, then shook his head. He could not afford to think of the past. He could not allow anger to cloud his judgement. This moment was all that mattered. His life could not end here, not with so much left undone. The vow he had taken in his youth and the promises he had attempted to keep – so much remained to be accomplished.

Outside, he heard voices, the strike of a match. The sun was starting to rise in the sky, sending ladders of light to break up the foul, fetid air. Bracing his legs and pushing back against the side of the truck, Baillard managed to get to his feet. He put his eye to the gap and saw two guards standing in the shade of a tree about two metres away. He pressed his ear to the timber, catching the frequency of their conversation until the muttered indistinguishable sounds became individual words.

‘Where next?’

‘Banyuls-sur-Mer.’

‘Why there?’

‘It’s secluded.’

The soldiers’ voices became indistinct again. Baillard looked and saw they had turned their backs on the truck. He watched them grind their spent cigarettes into the dry earth, then walk back towards the vehicle. The slam of the doors, and seconds later, the heavy vibration of the engine started up.

He sat down again, so as not to be thrown off balance by the uneven jolting of the truck. Now he understood. No one wanted to take responsibility for them. In Argelès they had taken a roll call, but not in Collioure. He should have realised what was going to happen then. There were to be no records. If they were not going to have to account for the prisoners they were transporting, why bother? They were of no use. Too old to fill the Nazis’ forward labour quotas, but in the absence of orders about where to send them, there was another solution. To kill them all.

Baillard leant back and started to formulate a plan. There was always a moment when they arrived at a new destination when the guards were less attentive. Except for the roll call being dropped, the routine had been more or less the same. The convoy stopped. The latches were lifted, the doors were opened and the prisoners allowed out. The guards took it in turns to go into the bushes to relieve themselves, to stretch their legs, to smoke. The drivers talked to one another, confident that the rifles cradled in their hands were enough to discourage any attempt at resistance.

If Baillard was going to escape, it would have to be in those first few minutes.

He looked around at his fellow prisoners, working out who might be thinking the same. The regime in the camp had been harsh. Anyone who disobeyed orders was brutally punished. Solitary confinement, three days without food or water, hard labour. Some were brave, but most were too defeated to act. They had lost the will to save themselves. Even so, Baillard knew he had to try.

‘When we stop,’ he whispered, ‘we must take our chance. It might be our last.’

He looked around, but there was no reaction to his words. A wave of pity washed through him, anger at how these men had been reduced to valuing their lives at so little.

‘We must act,’ he repeated, though hopes anyone would listen were fading. ‘We outnumber them. It is better to try.’

‘They’re armed, we’re not, what can we do?’ came a voice from the furthest corner. ‘Better not to cause trouble. The next camp might not be so bad.’

‘There will not be another camp. They do not intend to let us live,’ Baillard said.

‘You can’t know that. It might be better, who knows?’

Baillard realised there was nothing he could do. He could not save them if they were not able to save themselves. But it grieved him. He turned and pressed his eye to the letter-box gap. He could see they were following the main coastal route south. It was a stretch of road he knew well. In the distance, in the early dawn light, the soaring grey of the foothills of the Pyrenees. On the slopes, the green vineyards and the streaks of blue copper sulphate between the rows of vines. In other circumstances, one of the most beautiful views on the Vermilion Coast.

He made a calculation. The distance from Port-Vendres to Banyuls-sur-Mer was about four or five kilometres. Provided there were no roadblocks or delays – anti-tank blockades had been erected at many of the junctions – Baillard estimated it would take little more than a quarter of an hour. He did not have long to decide.

Baillard took a deep breath. The Spaniard on the opposite side of the truck was now watching him. García, he thought he was called. A former member of the International Brigade, a man who’d dedicated his life to fighting the fascists, Baillard knew him to be brave and principled. Their eyes met, then the slightest nod and Baillard knew he had one ally at least. Perhaps, when the time came, the others would find their courage.

The convoy stopped twice, although the engines kept running – perhaps to let other traffic past – but soon the swoop and curve of the bay came into view. A few houses, the grey rock a sharp contrast with the blue of the Mediterranean.

They continued through the town, then the driver swung to the right, heading away from the sea towards the uninhabited hinterland of the Puig del Mas. Tarmac gave way to stones, potholes on an unmade track. Baillard felt his heart lurch against his ribs. A shot of adrenalin through his veins, hope too. He knew this part of the land. In the distant past, he had travelled this way, heading for Portbou on the Spanish side of the border. The odds against them getting away were high, but they were better than they might have been.

‘Can you not see what they are going to do?’ he said urgently.

He and the Spaniard exchanged another glance, García acknowledging with a grimace how Baillard’s fears were justified. Not one of the others reacted, just continued to sway with the motion of the truck in defeated silence.

They continued to drive for ten minutes, a little less. Then, without any warning, the driver slammed on the brakes. Everyone slid, or fell, forwards, then struggled back to a sitting position. All except the man beside Baillard, who remained lying on his side on the floor of the truck.

The driver killed the engine. Seven pairs of eyes turned towards the doors. Seven sets of ears listening as the chain was released and knocked against the wood, then the metal bolt was slid back. Fresh air and pale sunlight flooded in.

‘Out,’ ordered the guard, jabbing the first prisoner with his rifle. A Mauser Karabiner K98, supplied by the Germans. More proof, Baillard thought – though it was hardly needed – of what the local Milice and Waffen-SS had agreed between them.

Everyone did what they were told. Baillard bowed his head, feigning a stiffness in his legs and arms. He felt García move up to stand beside him, shuffling forwards to join the other prisoners. Eight trucks, more than fifty wretched men.

Baillard gave silent thanks at their luck. They were in a clearing he recognised. On three sides, low scrub and woodland. There was an old smuggler’s path through the woods, he knew it well. Of the eight trucks in the convoy, they were closest to the wood.

‘À la izquierda,’ he whispered.

The Spaniard glanced to the left, saw the narrow path, and nodded. It was a risk, but it was the only chance they had.

‘I said, everyone out,’ the guard shouted into the back of their truck.

Baillard watched him climb up inside, kick the collapsed prisoner with his boot, then he turned and shouted.

‘Hey! Give us a hand.’

While two other guards went towards the truck, Baillard and the Spaniard seized their chance. Taking small steps, Baillard began to edge backwards towards the trees. He had no way of knowing if his fellow prisoners would realise what they were doing, if others were planning the same thing or might even try to stop them.

The miliciens heaved the body from the truck.

‘One more we don’t have to worry about,’ one guard said, letting the corpse drop to the ground.

Baillard kept his eyes pinned on the truck and the ragged huddle of prisoners. Still, no one reacted. No one shouted a warning to the guards. Baillard and García reached the edge of the wood. Immediately, they turned and walked quickly into the deep shade. Baillard knew that if they could make it unobserved to the first fork in the path, they had a good chance of staying free. The left-hand spur went sharply down to what looked like a dead end. The wider, right-hand side led towards the higher pastures. If soldiers did come after them, he thought they would head up the hillside. It was the logical decision.

An explosion of gunfire stopped him in his tracks. Both men froze. Baillard forced himself not to turn around and to keep moving, faster along the path to the dividing of the ways. Another burst from the rifles, the shots chasing on one another’s tail, but none aimed in the direction of the woods. His foot slipped, he flung out his hand to steady himself. More gunfire.

How many dead? Twenty? Thirty?

Baillard gestured to a flat ledge, a narrow gap in the underhang of the cliff. The Spaniard dropped to his stomach and slithered inside. The guns had fallen silent. Baillard hesitated, then followed him in. Then, violent in the peace of the mountains, they heard an explosion, followed by another. Minutes later, black plumes of smoke, pushed by the Tramontana, blew across the sky in front of where they were hiding.

‘Los despósitos de combustible,’ said Baillard. The fuel tanks.

The Spaniard crossed himself. Baillard closed his eyes, praying now that none of the prisoners had been left alive to burn. He had seen death by fire too many times – in Toulouse, in Carcassonne, at Montségur – and the sounds and smells and sights had never left him. The screaming and choking, the sweet stench of burnt flesh, bones slipping from the carcasses.

He bowed his head, regretful at how he had failed to persuade them. How he had not been able to save them. So many lives lost. Then he felt a tap on his arm. He opened his eyes to see the Spaniard holding out his hand.

‘Gracias, amigo,’ said García.

Chapter 105

CARCASSONNE

By the time Sandrine came away from the Café des Deux Gares, leaving Gaston to pack up the copies of Libertat for distribution, it was nearly ten o’clock. The Bastide was going about its daily business. An ordinary Monday morning. Suzanne went separately back to the rue du Palais to tell Raoul and Marianne that Sandrine was on her way.

Sandrine had one more job to do before she could go home, but every minute seemed endless. She hoped Robert would be on time. She walked past the Brasserie Terminus, feeling exhausted and jittery. The combination of little sleep and Liesl’s photographs of the atrocities perpetrated at Chalabre had set her nerves on edge. Even so, she realised it wasn’t just her. There was a high level of tension in the air. Everyone was more watchful than usual, anticipating trouble.

She crossed the boulevard Omer Sarraut, thinking about what might be the cause of it. Because people were already talking about the sabotage of the Berriac tunnel? Or the wireless broadcast about Authié? Her hands gripped the wooden handle of her panier tighter. Even those who didn’t know his name would understand that the arrival of a senior commander, dispatched from the north, signalled a new phase in the battle.

Without breaking stride, Sandrine looked in through the window of the Café Continental to see if Robert Bonnet was already there. He wasn’t, so she kept walking down rue Georges Clemenceau. She’d go as far as the junction with rue de Verdun, then come back again.

Just outside Artozouls, a group of men were coming towards her. Filling the width of the street, forcing other pedestrians to step out of their way, their voices loud and belligerent. Several different conversations seemed to be going on at once. Sandrine spotted Lucie’s father. She didn’t think Monsieur Ménard would recognise her, but she turned her face away all the same.

‘It was the Amazone,’ one of the veterans said as they drew level. ‘That’s what I heard.’

Quickly Sandrine stepped into the doorway of the nearest shop and pretended to be looking at the limited display of household goods.

‘Some tart? Bloody figment of your imagination, that’s all. Partisan propaganda to undermine us. Make the Milice out to be weak. Whipped by some female.’ A coarse burst of laugher. ‘It’s communists behind Berriac. It’ll come out soon enough.’

Sandrine waited until the men had gone into the Café Edouard, then stepped back into the street. She knew she had several nicknames – ‘Amazone’ being one of the most polite. Others were less complimentary: whore, lesbian, gypsy. She reached the junction, then turned round and started to walk back. Much as she hated to admit it, the truth was the sentiments expressed by the LVF were shared by many on their side too. There were plenty of partisans who resented even the idea of an all-female réseau. They believed that war was a man’s business and it offended their sense of honour. Flag, faith, family, they still clung to a Pétainist view of the world. Men like Raoul, Yves Rousset, Guillaume Breillac – even Robert and Gaston Bonnet, though they were of an older generation – were in the minority.

‘Amazone,’ she muttered, allowing herself a brief smile. As long as people refused to believe that a women’s network could exist, they were safer. A few insults was a small price to pay for that.

She looked back up the street and saw Robert Bonnet hurrying towards their rendezvous. She gave him a few moments to go inside, then slowly walked back towards the café.

Robert was standing at the counter nursing a glass of something that passed for beer. She walked up and stood at the far end.

‘Bonjour,’ she said to the proprietor. ‘Un café, s’il vous plaît.’

He nodded. Before the war, an unaccompanied young woman at the counter in a café by herself might have attracted attention, but not now. Everyone was busy trying not to notice anyone else. Sandrine stood in silence until he came back with the small white china cup and saucer.

‘Merci,’ she said, pushing a folded note across the counter. Inside it was a list of the places Robert would need to take the copies of Libertat, once Gaston had packed the supplies and Marianne had notified the couriers.

The proprietor took the note, rang up the amount in the till, then walked to the other end of the counter and gave the change, and the list, to Robert. Then he returned to the centre, took a glass and began to polish it with his tea towel.

‘Anything else I can get you, mademoiselle?’

Sandrine drank the foul chicory mixture down in one. ‘No, that’s just what I needed. A pick-me-up.’

He nodded. ‘A demain?’

Sandrine gave a sigh of relief. Perhaps things were going to be all right after all.

‘Yes,’ she said, raising her voice so Robert could hear too.

‘Tuesday it is,’ said the proprietor. ‘Market day.’

Chapter 106

There was no one about when Sandrine got back to the rue du Palais. She left her basket outside the back door, to get rid of the smell of the fish, washed her hands again with washing powder Marianne had exchanged for some matches, then went upstairs and quietly opened the door to her bedroom.

The morning light filtered grey through the gaps in the shutters. As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she picked out the bureau of bleached mahogany against the wall between the two windows. To the right of her bed, the high-backed couch covered with washed green Chinese silk and the bamboo plant stand. Opposite, beside the door, the shelves of the low bookcase were almost empty now. They had hidden some of the books, now banned, in the cellar, not wanting to let them go. Others, of less sentimental value, they’d been forced to use for the fire in the salon during the bitter winters.

Raoul was still asleep in her child’s single bed. One arm above his head, the other flung wide, claiming ownership of the space. His hair, set free from oil or wax, was tousled on the pillow and the sheet was drawn up no higher than his waist, revealing his strong, though now thin, body. In the gathering light, Sandrine could see the shadow of rough growth on his chin.

She knew she had to wake him up. But, just for a moment, she let him sleep in peace. Before the Germans had invaded all of France, the murder charge hanging over him had kept him out of Carcassonne. Two years later, so very many men were criminals or in hiding that Raoul no longer stood out. It had made it possible for him to come in and out of Carcassonne from time to time.

Sandrine sat on the bed beside him and ran her fingers down his smooth tanned arms, so brown next to the white of his chest. She could feel the life moving beneath his skin, the hardship and strength of his hilltop existence. And when she remembered how they had spent the hours between dusk and dawn, she blushed, even though there was no one there to see.

Even after two years, Sandrine was still overwhelmed by the strength of her feelings. The way her heart leapt when she caught unexpected sight of him, the way the ground shifted beneath her feet when he smiled at her. In all that time, they had never spent more than a few days at a time together. She occasionally wondered whether, if they lived together week in, week out like any normal husband and wife, this sense of the miracle of emotion and need would fade. Grow tired, habitual? Was it only because they saw one another rarely and for such short periods of time that there was this intensity, this sense of being sick and weak with desire when they did meet? There was no way of knowing.

They all lived in the present. Even so, Sandrine sometimes allowed herself to dream of a time when she and Raoul might have the chance to grow weary of one another’s company. When the war was over and they no longer had to live in the shadows. The chance to become a dull, old married couple like any other, rejoicing in the mundane and the everyday.

‘Sandrine Pelletier,’ she muttered, trying out the name in her head. ‘Monsieur et Madame Pelletier.’

She sighed. Somehow, it didn’t suit her. Didn’t suit either of them, truth be told. It made them sound too grown up, too staid. Sandrine hugged her arms around herself, disliking the imprint of her ribs under her own fingers. She had grown thin, they all had. It suited Lucie’s prettiness and Marianne’s fine features, but she herself felt merely ungainly, all long arms and legs. A garçon manqué once more, as Marieta had called her when she was little.

In the bed, Raoul stirred and shifted position, though he did not wake. Sandrine looked down at him, astonished to see how open and trusting his face was in sleep, despite everything he had done and seen. The way he lived in the mountains.

‘Mon còr,’ she whispered.

Even those quietest of words were enough to wake him. Straight away, Raoul was alert. Eyes open, twisting round, his hand reaching for the gun he’d placed on the floor beneath the bed.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.’

His eyes focused on her, then immediately his expression changed and he smiled.

‘You’re back,’ he said, pushing himself into a sitting position and leaning against the headboard. ‘What time is it?’

‘Just after ten.’

He looked at her outdoor shoes. ‘You’ve been out already?’

‘Café des Deux Gares.’

‘Of course,’ he said, running his hands over his hair to flatten it down. ‘Was Liesl’s film any good? Anything you could use?’

Sandrine nodded. ‘Dreadful, but what we need.’

‘Did you get the edition finished?’

Sandrine nodded. ‘Printed and ready to distribute tonight.’

He put his hand on her waist. ‘So you have done your work for the day?’

He smiled, the same crooked-eyed smile that still made her heart skip a beat.

Sandrine laughed. ‘If only,’ she said, then the lightness faded from her face. ‘There’s something I need to tell you, something I just heard.’

‘Let it wait,’ he said, undoing the top button of her dress.

‘It’s important,’ she said, though she didn’t want him to stop.

‘So’s this,’ he said, undoing the next button, then the next, to reveal her plain white chemise underneath.

‘At least let me shut the door,’ she laughed, slipping out of his hands.

The latch snicked loudly. Sandrine stepped out of her dress, which fell like a pool of water at her feet, and walked back towards him. Slowly she raised her arms and pulled her chemise over her head, then removed her slip and knickers. Raoul lifted the corner of the sheet to let her under.

‘Welcome back,’ he said.

Sandrine lay in the corner of his arm, on pillows that still held the memory of him. She heard him exhale, a sigh half of relief, half of expectation, and she smiled. For a moment, they lay, arm to arm, side to side, her feet a little cold against the heat of his just woken skin. Then Raoul bent over her. Now Sandrine could feel his breath, whispering over the surface of her skin like a summer breeze. His lips dancing, his tongue slipping, sliding over her breasts. She gasped as he took her nipple into his mouth, licking, teasing.

Raoul raised himself on his elbow and reached out to the pocket of his trousers, lying on the chair beside the bed.

‘Wait a moment, I have something,’ he whispered.

Sandrine stopped him. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s all right.’

Raoul looked at her in surprise, with gratitude. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

He lowered himself beside her and stroked the length of her arm with the back of his fingers, then moved his hand across her stomach, down to the space between her legs.

‘Mon còr,’ he said, echoing her words.

Gently he moved until he was covering her body with his, looking down at her. Sandrine met his gaze, then, without warning, threw her arms around his back and rolled him over, so that now she was sitting astride him.

‘That’s better,’ she teased. ‘I prefer the view from here.’

Raoul laughed and put his hands on her slim waist. She leant forward, letting her breasts skim against his chest, then gently eased him inside her, little by little, until she had taken the whole of him. For a moment he lay still, contained with her, as if resting.

She leant forward again and, this time, kissed him on the lips, then the hollow of his throat. She felt strong, powerful, as if at this moment she could do anything. A hypnotic, heavy heat seeped through her limbs, and her head was filled with the sound of her blood beating. She had no sense of time or space. There was only Raoul and the sunlight slipping through the gaps in the shutters.

Slowly, she began to move.

‘Sandrine.’

The word slipped from between his lips. She took his hands and held them against hers, palm to palm, fingers entwined. She could feel the force of him, the power in his tanned arms and firm thighs, a mirror of her own strong arms and legs. She kissed him again, and, this time, felt his tongue dart between her lips, hot and wet and hungry.

He was breathing harder, driven on by desire. An echo of her own feelings, emotions, need. They were moving faster now, Sandrine rocking against him, pushing his hands back against the headboard, the roaring in her head fiercer, separate from thought. She wanted to imprint the memory of his face on her eyes, the memory of muscle and bone and heat. The urgency of what she felt kept her moving on and on, until suddenly she felt the blood rush to her head, and held on to him as he cried out her name. He shuddered, then was still.

Gradually, the roaring in her head faded away too, until nothing remained but the hushed silence of the room. Sandrine leant forward, her head on his chest for a moment, hearing the rhythm of his heart slowing down, returning to its normal beat. Then, she moved and lay back down beside him.

Without intending to, they drifted to sleep. Outside, the sun grew stronger, climbing higher in the Midi sky. Safe in one another’s arms, they were unaware of the hours passing or the life of the house going on downstairs. For now, only for now, their universe was bounded by the four walls of the bedroom, the closed door, the wooden shutters keeping the world at bay.

Chapter 107

COUSTAUSSA

Liesl glanced back over her shoulder. Early in the morning, she had taken food up to the Maquis in the garrigue, then come down into Couiza. The man was still standing in the doorway, smoking a cigarette. No reason to think he was watching her. To think he was watching anyone. But there was something about him that set alarm bells ringing. Liesl didn’t think she’d seen him before. Or had she? Dark suit, a little too smart for this small, out-of-the-way town. He wasn’t local, certainly.

She lifted the blue and white check cloth in her basket to make sure she had nothing incriminating. There was a handkerchief full of cherries, a late crop. Yves Rousset had given them to her, half for Marieta and half for his mother. Liesl had promised to deliver them herself. She was out of film, so hadn’t brought her camera with her. She had her carte d’identité and her ration book.

Feigning indifference, she looked again. The man was still there, still smoking. Out of place in his dark suit and hat, staring in her direction. Straight away she adopted the usual procedures when they thought they were being followed. She went into the épicerie, though she had no coupons, then came out and went into the tabac. It was under new management now, the previous owner, a notorious local informer, having been found dead in the river six weeks before. A reprisal killing. Liesl didn’t know who’d done it. Not ‘Citadel’, nor anyone from the Couiza Maquis either. That wasn’t how they operated.

She chatted for a while and bought a sheet of one-franc stamps. When she emerged into the sunshine, she crossed the square and went into the post office. Its wide double door wasn’t visible from across the road. If the man was following her, he’d have to move.

She spent ten minutes queuing inside, pretended to have left the letter she wished to post at home and came out again. The Tramontana was starting to blow, sending the dust swirling up and around. She glanced again towards the doorway and, this time, saw nothing.

The man had gone.

Liesl let out her breath, hoping it was just a false alarm. She, Geneviève and Eloise saw shadows everywhere. It was hard to distinguish real threat from their overheated imaginations.

She paused a moment, allowing her heart to steady, then headed to the Grand Café Guilhem, where she was due to meet Geneviève. Liesl knew she was late, but she was still within their agreed time frame. As she walked, with her long, elegant strides, someone wolf-whistled. She turned and a rather sweet-looking man grinned at her. Liesl didn’t acknowledge him, but she did smile slightly as she walked past. No sense in making a fuss.

In two years, Liesl had grown from a solemn, quiet girl into a tall, graceful and self-possessed young woman. She was very slim, but it enhanced her beauty rather than diminishing it and she was much admired. She could have had her pick of the few young men left in Couiza, if she’d wanted. Only a few close friends knew how much time she and Yves Rousset spent in one another’s company. It was harder now, but they contrived to meet when they could. Like this morning. She smiled at the memory.

Liesl sat at their usual table on the terrace, the one with the best view of both the bridge and the road. She caught sight of her reflection in the glass window and wondered, as she often did, if Max would even recognise her now. It had been so long since they’d seen one another.

No one in Coustaussa or Couiza had ever challenged the story that Liesl was a cousin of the Vidals from Paris. So many of the old mountain families were distantly related – Sandrine and Marianne were cousins of the Saint-Loup girls, several times removed. Liesl had rarely been asked to produce her papers and, when she had, there’d been no trouble. The false documents Suzanne had obtained for her continued to pass muster. But the need to keep her true background secret meant Liesl rarely got news about her brother. What few scraps of information they did receive came from the waitress in the Café de la Paix in Le Vernet village, who telephoned Sandrine in Carcassonne, who then relayed the news back to Coustaussa via Raoul. As for her nephew, little Jean-Jacques, Liesl hadn’t seen him for over a year.

The waiter came to take her order. ‘S’il vous plaît? ’

Liesl looked in her purse and discovered it was all but empty.

‘Actually, I’m expecting a friend,’ she said. ‘We’ll order when she gets here.’

‘Un café . . .’

‘No, really, I’m happy to wait.’

‘. . . on the house,’ he said.

‘Oh.’ Liesl looked up at him. ‘That’s very kind,’ she said quietly. ‘Then, yes please.’

She checked the road, wondering where Geneviève had got to, then glanced at her watch. It was unlike her to be late, despite the difficulties in getting from one place to another. She had gone to Limoux yesterday to hand over a film to Raoul for Sandrine, but Liesl had expected her back before now.

The waiter brought the ersatz coffee and she sipped it as slowly as she could, making it last for as long as possible. She looked at her watch again, tapping the glass in case it was losing time. The hands continued to move steadily round. Liesl felt a flurry of nerves in her stomach. The meeting place might have been discovered, someone might have talked. The rule was that if a contact was more than half an hour late, you left. You took no risks. The fact that the contact was Geneviève – her closest friend – made no difference.

Time was up.

Liesl smoothed down her dress, picked up her basket and walked quickly down the steps to the road. She looked towards Limoux, the direction she’d expect Geneviève to be coming from, willing her to be there. The road was empty.

She collected her bicycle, put her basket on the front, then began to cycle towards home. It was only as she passed the boulangerie on the corner that she saw him again. The same man. She pedalled faster, not wanting to run the risk of him stepping out in front of her. He did nothing, though he made no attempt to hide the fact that he was looking at her. And as she cycled east on the road towards Coustaussa, Liesl felt his eyes drilling into her back.

Liesl took a roundabout route, doubling back in case the man had somehow managed to follow her in a car or by motorbike. By the time she walked into the kitchen in Coustaussa, she was hot and worn out.

She handed the cherries to Marieta. ‘The rest are for Madame Rousset,’ she said. ‘I’ll take them over to her as soon as I’ve got my strength back.’

‘What happened?’ said Marieta, looking at her flushed face.

‘I was followed,’ Liesl said, pouring herself a glass of water and sitting down at the kitchen table. ‘At least, I think so. Didn’t want to take the risk.’

Marieta’s eyes sharpened, though her voice didn’t change.

‘Followed, you say,’ she said, putting the cherries into a colander. ‘Where?’

‘In Couiza. Not before.’

‘When?’

‘About an hour ago. I was due to meet Geneviève in the café, but she didn’t arrive. I was late, so it’s possible I missed her. In the end I decided it was better to come home.’ She met Marieta’s gaze. ‘Just in case.’

Marieta nodded. ‘Perhaps Madomaisèla Geneviève went straight down to Tarascon?’

Liesl looked up. ‘Why would she change her plans when we’d arranged to meet?’

Marieta frowned. ‘An old friend of Na Saint-Loup passed away at the weekend. It was a natural death and Pierre was old, but even so. Geneviève would wish to be there to comfort her mother, I’m sure of it.’

The explanation gave Liesl some comfort. It made sense and Geneviève was usually so reliable.

‘Yes, I can see she would want to be there.’

‘No reason to think anything else,’ Marieta said sternly. ‘No sense worrying yourself to a thread.’

Liesl sighed. ‘No.’

Marieta held Liesl’s glance for a moment, then pointed to the empty glass bottle on the draining board. ‘Could you pass me that?’

Liesl got up and handed it to her, then sat down again. She watched as Marieta ladled the cherries into the narrow neck, pushing them down with the handle of a wooden spoon.

‘What are you doing?’

‘What I can,’ Marieta said quietly. She took a small bottle of cognac from the table in front of her and started to drizzle the brandy on top of the cherries. ‘Making a kind of Guignolet. It is Monsieur Baillard’s particular favourite drink.’

‘But . . .’ Liesl began, then stopped. She had been about to ask what the point was in making Monsieur Baillard’s favourite drink, but knew better than to say the thought out loud. ‘Where did you get the brandy?’ she asked instead.

‘Madomaisèla Geneviève was given it.’

Liesl smiled. ‘They all adore her.’

‘She has a good nature,’ Marieta said.

Liesl hid her smile, perfectly certain that it wasn’t Geneviève’s good nature the maquisards appreciated so much as her face and her figure. Unlike everyone else, she had kept her perfect hour-glass curves and looked as healthy and pretty as ever.

Marieta drained the half-litre of cognac. ‘When Monsieur Baillard comes back,’ she said, with a slight tremor in her voice, ‘I want to welcome him home properly.’

‘Yes,’ Liesl said. Her heart went out to the old woman. She knew Marieta missed Sandrine and Marianne. Little Jean-Jacques too; the house had seemed so quiet when he’d gone. But she forgot that Marieta missed her old friend most of all. ‘Yes, of course you do. He’ll be so delighted.’

For a moment, silence fell between them. The only sound was the knocking of the spoon against the glass. Liesl watched as Marieta put the flat blue metal cap on the bottle, twisted it shut and turned the bottle over and back several times, like an egg-timer. Then she walked slowly to the larder and put the Guignolet inside on the shelf.

‘There,’ Marieta said, ‘perfect in a week or two. At least, good enough.’

She lowered herself on to a chair with a sigh, poking wisps of grey hair back into the bun at the nape of her neck. ‘So, you said you were followed. Is there any particular reason, madomaisèla, why such a thing should have happened today?’

‘What do you mean?’

Marieta fixed her with a look. ‘You know quite well what I mean.’

Liesl met her gaze. Marieta was perfectly aware that the girls delivered food and weapons to the men. But she also knew that they carried out small acts of sabotage or disruption, and that Liesl took great risks to photograph the atrocities committed by the Milice and the occupying forces, when she could get the film.

‘No. I paid a visit to the hills, that’s all.’

‘There is nothing particular being planned?’

Liesl wasn’t sure what Geneviève would want her to say. The fact was, there was something being planned, but as the guerrilla war between the maquisards and the Gestapo grew more vicious, no one was safe. They told Marieta what was happening only in general terms, therefore, hoping it might keep her safer.

‘No,’ she replied, though she couldn’t meet Marieta’s gaze. ‘Si es atal es atal,’ she rushed on, quoting one of the housekeeper’s well-worn phrases back at her. She found a smile, trying to persuade herself that everything would be all right. ‘What will be will be,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that what you’re always telling me?’

Marieta didn’t return the smile. ‘Even if there is nothing planned,’ she said in a sombre tone, ‘it would be wise not to go down into the town for the time being. Your friends can manage for a day or two without you, do you hear me?’

Liesl stared. Marieta never made a fuss, never overreacted. That she was taking this seriously upset her more than any scolding would have done.

‘Wait until Geneviève and Eloise come back,’ Marieta said, ‘then we’ll see, è?’

Chapter 108

CARCASSONNE

‘Sandrine?’

There was a sharp tapping on the door. Sandrine blinked, stretched and half woke, without identifying what had disturbed her. The knocking started again.

‘Sandrine, are you in there?’

She opened her eyes, surprised to hear Lucie’s voice. She glanced at the clock, and was horrified to see that it was early afternoon. They’d slept for hours.

Slipping out from beneath Raoul’s arm, she took her cotton dressing gown from its hook, pulled the belt tight around her waist, then opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.

‘Sorry to barge in and all that,’ Lucie said in a whisper, ‘but Marianne wants you to come.’

‘Why? What’s happened?’

‘We’re in the kitchen,’ said Lucie. ‘I’ll tell her you’re on your way.’

Sandrine nodded. Quickly she gathered the items of clothing that lay strewn across the bedroom floor. She took a last glance at Raoul, pleased that he was so peaceful. A month’s worth of sleep in a real bed to catch up on.

‘A bientôt,’ she murmured, then, resisting the temptation to kiss him again, she crept out of the room and downstairs.

Marianne, Lucie and Suzanne were sitting at the kitchen table. The windows were tilted open to let in a little fresh air, but the door to the garden was closed and the room was hot.

‘I’m sorry, I’d no idea it was so late.’

‘But you’re all right?’ Marianne was saying. She looked harried, exhausted, the lines around her eyes dark as if drawn on with ink.

‘Fine,’ said Suzanne gruffly. ‘Don’t fuss.’

Lucie was sitting in her chair, frowning.

‘They had to release me,’ Suzanne continued. ‘They had no grounds to hold me. No evidence.’

‘Evidence! ’ Marianne said. ‘Did they tell you why you’d been arrested?’

‘I wasn’t arrested.’

‘You know what I mean.’

Sandrine sat down at the table with a thump. ‘When?’ she said.

‘After I left the Café des Deux Gares,’ Suzanne said.

‘What happened?’

‘Two plain-clothes—’

‘Gestapo?’ Sandrine interrupted.

Suzanne shook her head. ‘Police. Not local. I didn’t recognise them.’

‘Had they been following you?’ Sandrine asked.

Suzanne shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. They took me to the Commissariat. Must have been about ten thirty.’ She glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘I got back fifteen minutes ago.’

‘I’d been trying to find her all morning,’ Marianne said to Sandrine. ‘Lucie came to tell me what had happened.’

Sandrine threw a glance at Lucie, then back to her sister.

‘How did Lucie know?’

Lucie answered for herself. ‘Gaston Bonnet saw them. J-J and I had spent the morning by the canal, looking at the boats, and in the Jardin des Plantes. He noticed I was still there and asked me to let Marianne know.’

Sandrine met her eye. ‘Thank you.’ Although Lucie was prepared to run errands for them from time to time, mostly she kept her distance for the sake of Jean-Jacques.

Lucie flushed. ‘My pleasure, kid.’

Marianne looked distressed. ‘They didn’t—’

‘No,’ Suzanne said firmly. ‘No one laid a finger on me. They just asked questions.’

‘About Libertat?’ Sandrine asked.

‘Not to start with. They were fishing. Who my friends were. Tossed a lot of names about, all résistants who’ve been arrested recently – Léri, Bonfils, Lespinasse – but nothing that could stick.’ She looked briefly at Marianne. ‘They asked about the protest your students staged last November. If I knew anything about it.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I admitted we were friends, there’s no secret in that. Said that Marianne was engaged to my cousin.’

A sudden wail from Jean-Jacques in the salon stopped the conversation for a moment.

‘He’s teething,’ Lucie said, getting up. ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’

‘Go on,’ said Sandrine quickly, as soon as Lucie had gone.

‘They asked if I was aware Marianne had been suspended for refusing to take books by Jewish writers off the classroom shelves.’

‘That was eighteen months ago,’ Sandrine said.

‘I know. I said I didn’t know anything about it.’ She looked at Marianne. ‘I told them you were a bookworm. That it had been an oversight, nothing political.’

Marianne smiled, but didn’t say anything.

‘Did they believe you?’ Sandrine asked.

‘Possibly, but what could they say?’

Sandrine was frowning. ‘It’s odd for the police to ask about that. That sort of thing’s not their responsibility.’ She paused. ‘Who conducted the interview?’

Suzanne gave a wry smile. ‘They didn’t formally introduce themselves.’

Realising Suzanne was now deliberately playing it down so as not to worry Marianne, Sandrine mustered a smile.

‘No, sorry. Stupid of me to ask.’ She thought for a moment. ‘But you were at the Commissariat de Police all the time?’

Suzanne nodded. ‘It was all courteous and formal, but I’m sure someone outside the room was listening. There was a mirror. Could have been two-way.’

‘Did you hear any German?’

‘In the corridor outside.’ She took another hard drag of her cigarette. ‘After an hour or so they got on to Libertat. But even then all they asked was if I read it.’

Sandrine glanced towards the corridor, listening for signs of Lucie coming back.

‘I said I’d seen it, but I didn’t read it.’

‘They didn’t ask about anything else?’

‘No.’

‘Nothing about last night?’

Suzanne shook her head. ‘No.’

Sandrine let out a long sigh of relief. ‘That’s something, at least.’ She paused. ‘What were they really after, do you think?’

‘I honestly don’t know. They switched topics so quickly, everything in the same tone. I said I’d seen the newspaper around Carcassonne, but I was too busy to spend time on the regular dailies, let alone underground newspapers, et cetera, et cetera. I thought they’d press me more than they did, but they suddenly jumped to asking about the Croix-Rouge. They even asked if I was a member of the Communist Party. They must know I’m not.’

‘And they asked about Marianne, but not me?’

‘That’s right.’

‘No one else?’

‘No one.’

‘Not the Bonnets? Not Coustaussa?’

‘No.’

Sandrine traced a pattern on the table with her finger, thinking hard. ‘All we can hope is that this is nothing to do with “Citadel”, then. That it simply comes from next door, no real information. Just tittle-tattle from Madame Fournier.’

Marianne sat forward in her chair. ‘She did stop me on the doorstep yesterday and ask how many people actually lived here.’

‘Perhaps it’s all right,’ Sandrine said, aware that she was trying to convince herself. ‘They have your description on file, Suzanne. A couple of officers saw you, decided to bring you in. A fishing expedition, nothing more.’

Suzanne was nodding. ‘You and I are more often together,’ she said to Marianne. ‘And although we do everything not to duplicate the same arrangements, or use the same distribution routes for Libertat too often, there are plenty of other people like Madame Fournier looking out of their windows.’ She rubbed her fingers together. ‘Hoping to make a little extra.’

‘What do you think we should do?’ Marianne said quietly. ‘Just sit tight?’

‘Everything’s in train for getting this edition out tonight,’ Sandrine said. ‘It’s more of a risk to try to stop it than to let the arrangements go ahead as planned.’

‘I agree,’ said Suzanne.

‘But it’s probably a good idea not to do anything else for a week or two. Let the dust settle.’

Suzanne met her gaze. ‘You don’t think it’s connected to Authié?’

Immediately the cold feeling in the pit of her stomach came back. Sandrine had managed to put Authié out of her mind and concentrate on the matter in hand. Then, of course, she’d come home to Raoul and everything had been forgotten. She hadn’t even told Raoul about the news report and, judging from the look on Marianne’s face, Suzanne hadn’t had the chance to tell her either.

‘What about Authié?’ Marianne said. ‘What have you heard?’

Sandrine put her hand over Marianne’s. ‘There was a bulletin this morning on the wireless. Lucie heard it.’

There was a sound in the corridor and everyone stopped talking and looked towards the kitchen door. Sandrine turned round, expecting it to be Lucie. It was Raoul. Despite the tightness in her chest, she felt a smile come to her lips.

‘Am I intruding?’

Sandrine reached out her hand to him. ‘No, not in the slightest. Come in.’

Raoul nodded to Suzanne and Marianne, then dropped a kiss on Sandrine’s head before sitting down.

‘I haven’t slept so long for . . . well, I can’t even remember.’

‘No,’ Sandrine said softly.

‘Authié,’ Marianne said again.

Immediately, Raoul’s expression changed. ‘What have you heard?’

Briefly, Sandrine told them both what she knew. From the look on his face, she realised he’d already heard something. ‘You knew?’

‘Not for sure,’ he said. ‘Rumours.’ He ran his hand over his hair. ‘I’d hoped it wasn’t true.’

‘He was in one of the photographs on the film Liesl sent,’ Sandrine said. ‘It looked like Chalabre.’ She glanced at Raoul. ‘Did she take the pictures herself, do you know?’

‘I don’t. She just asked me to bring the film to you. I met Geneviève in Limoux, and she handed the package over.’

‘Authié’s here already?’ Marianne said, her voice rising. ‘He could already be in Carcassonne.’

For a few days now, Sandrine had known her sister was close to the end of her tether. She feared that this final piece of bad news, coming hard on the heels of Suzanne’s arrest, might be too much.

‘I don’t think so,’ she said firmly. ‘What happened in Chalabre was several weeks ago. If he’d been in the Midi all this time, we would have heard about it.’ She paused. ‘In any case, the fact that they announced it on the wireless means they want people to know about his presence. It’s a statement of intent, they’ve got no reason to keep it secret.’

‘I was going to ask Jeanne Giraud if her husband had heard anything,’ said Suzanne, ‘but then I was picked up.’

Sandrine frowned. ‘How recent are the rumours you’ve been hearing?’

‘Last couple of days, nothing before that.’ Raoul paused. ‘What about Bonnet’s lady friend? Yvonne, is it?’

‘Yvette,’ Sandrine said.

‘That’s it. She works at Gestapo headquarters on the route de Toulouse, doesn’t she? If there’s anything to hear, she might know something.’

‘I agree. She’s been unwell over the weekend, so hasn’t been able to go to work.’

‘She’s better now, according to Gaston,’ Suzanne said with a wry smile. ‘Think he’s got a bit of a thing for Yvette himself.’

‘What if they arrest you again?’ Marianne said.

Suzanne gave her hand a quick squeeze. ‘They won’t.’

‘They might.’

‘I’ll be all right.’

For a moment, no one spoke. Everyone locked in their own thoughts. Then Sandrine got up and closed the door. This was one part of the conversation she absolutely didn’t want Lucie to hear.

‘What we need is reliable information,’ she said, looking round the table. ‘About when Authié’s due to arrive, where he is now, where he’s going to be based once he gets to Carcassonne. Until we know the facts of the situation, we can’t plan anything.’

‘Agreed,’ Raoul said.

‘So, Suzanne, find Jeanne and see if she knows anything more than they’ve given out on the wireless.’ She turned to her sister. ‘Marianne, can you talk to Robert? Find out if Gaston’s right that Yvette is going to work tonight. If she is, set up a meeting for her to talk to Raoul later. Can you do that?’

Marianne looked exhausted, but she nodded. ‘Where?’

‘Usual bar on the Canal du Midi, off rue Antoine Marty,’ Raoul said. ‘Bonnet knows the one. The password is: “Monsieur Riquet is unwell.” The response is: “His friend, Monsieur Belin, has the medicine.” Is that all right?’

Most of the passwords Sandrine came up with were inspired by local Carcassonnais men and women of note – architects and engineers, artists, industrialists. All the local history her father had taught her, coming to practical use now.

Marianne nodded again. ‘Yes.’

‘Good.’

‘But we can’t stay here,’ Marianne said, her voice cracking. ‘We’ll have to clear out. This is the first place he’ll look.’

‘It hasn’t come to that yet,’ Sandrine said, still thinking. ‘We must also make contact with Liesl and Geneviève. Find out if they’ve heard anything, especially work out how Liesl got the photographs.’ She smiled at her sister. ‘We can’t rely on anyone calling – there’s no reason why they would – so I think the best thing would be for you and Suzanne to go in person, once you’ve finished here. Go to Coustaussa. Get out from under Madame Fournier’s nose, if nothing else.’

A look of such relief swept over Marianne’s face that Sandrine knew she’d made the right decision. If her sister was picked up now, she could see she hadn’t the fight left in her to stand up to them.

‘But what about you?’ Marianne was saying. ‘You’re in more danger than anyone if Authié comes back.’

Sandrine saw Suzanne and Raoul exchange a glance. They knew what she was thinking. That they had to strike first, before Authié had the chance to do anything.

Marianne saw the look. ‘What is it? What are you going to do?’ she said in a low voice. ‘Sandrine?’

Sandrine hesitated, then took a deep breath. ‘The only thing we can do,’ she said. ‘We have to kill him.’

Chapter 109

The next few hours passed quickly.

Suzanne headed to the rue de la Gaffe, in the shadow of the medieval Cité on the far side of the Aude, where Jeanne Giraud lived with her husband and father-in-law. Her papers were checked as she crossed the Pont Vieux, but the vert-de-gris paid her no more attention than usual.

It was an abortive mission. Jeanne knew no more than they did, namely that Major Leo Authié was being sent back to Carcassonne to lead the ongoing campaign against the Resistance. Her husband, Jean-Marc, was in Roullens, treating two survivors from Maquis de Mas Saintes-Puelles, but was expected back at any moment.

Jeanne’s father-in-law was inclined to talk. ‘I remember Authié,’ old Giraud said, turning and spitting his contempt to the ground. ‘He’s the one questioned me in the hospital. After the bomb on Bastille Day that damaged the cathédrale Saint-Michel. He threatened us. Remember, Jeanne?’

‘I remember,’ Jeanne said.

‘Bastille Day,’ he said, his voice rich with age and nostalgia. ‘We used to have such fireworks. The fourteenth of July, the whole sky lit up white and red. The stones of the Cité themselves looked like they were on fire.’ For a moment, his face was bright with happier memories. Then the light faded from his eyes. ‘Back in the day, back in the day.’

‘And we’ll have fireworks again, you’ll see, when all this is over.’

The old man simply shook his head and went back inside.

Jeanne dropped her voice. ‘He’s losing heart,’ she said to Suzanne. ‘It’s gone on too long.’

Suzanne nodded. ‘Yes.’

Jeanne sighed. ‘When my husband gets back, I’ll find out if he’s heard anything about Authié. If he has, I’ll get a message to Sandrine or Marianne. Are they still in rue du Palais?’

‘For the time being,’ Suzanne said.

Jeanne’s eyes narrowed. ‘Has something changed?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

Suzanne strode back along rue de la Gaffe, aware of eyes behind every shuttered window, and out on to rue Barbacane. She stood in line in the hot sun, waiting to be allowed to cross the bridge. Once more she produced her papers for the Wehrmacht patrol at the checkpoint. Once more, she was waved through.

Two Waffen-SS soldiers were posing for photographs with the backdrop of the fortified city behind them. She was tempted to walk in front of the camera, but knew it would be stupid to draw attention to herself for no gain.

Marianne was in the Bastide looking for Robert Bonnet. She tried the Café Continental first, with no luck. She went past the apartment where Max and Liesl had once lived, looking up at the first-floor window. Another family had it now, all traces of the previous occupants eradicated. She passed the rue de l’Aigle d’Or, unable to prevent herself glancing to the back door of the café. It had been raided the previous week, it was presumed as some kind of retaliation for Sandrine and Suzanne’s sabotage of the Milice recruiting office.

She had to stop herself breaking into a run as she felt the familiar twist of fear in her stomach. These days she was rattled almost all of the time. Her nerve had gone. She found it hard to sleep or to eat, but couldn’t seem to do anything about it. There was a ticking clock in her head, like a stopwatch counting down, telling her that their luck was about to run out.

Marianne eventually found Robert in the Café Saillan, near the covered market. There was a queue of men in the tabac opposite and the usual lines of women outside the boulangeries and the épicerie. The café was dark and smoky, and she was conscious of being the only woman. All the same, she was so desperate to do what she had to do, then get ready to leave for Coustaussa, that she simply walked up to the table without any kind of precaution.

‘Robert, I have a message for you.’

He looked up with surprise, glanced anxiously around, then stood up and steered her by the elbow back into the street.

‘What are you doing here? Did they let Suzanne go?’

She nodded, then explained what Sandrine wanted. ‘If Yvette can do that?’

Robert nodded. ‘She’ll be there.’

She began to give the password, but Robert held up his hand. ‘Don’t worry about that, I’ll be there too. I’ll point Raoul out to her.’

‘I’ll tell him,’ she said, turning to go.

Robert put a hand out and touched her arm. ‘Are you all right, Marianne?’ he said, concern written across his face.

Marianne caught her breath, tempted to answer honestly for once. Then she shrugged. ‘I’m just tired, Robert. Very, very tired.’

‘Be careful.’

Raoul smiled. ‘I will.’

Sandrine straightened his tie and smoothed the shoulders of her father’s lightweight linen jacket. It had hung unworn in François’ wardrobe for four years, gathering dust. Raoul looked older in it. It was a good disguise. But the sight of him in her father’s favourite summer suit twisted at her heart strings. She thought they would have liked one another if they’d ever had the chance to meet.

‘Hey,’ he said tenderly. ‘It’ll be all right. I’ll be there and back before you know it, don’t worry.’

Sandrine picked a piece of fluff from his lapel. ‘Be very careful,’ she said again, not wanting to explain. ‘I’ll check you’re clear to go.’

She crept into the salon. Lucie had fallen asleep on the sofa, with Jean-Jacques cradled in the crook of her arm. Sandrine peered out of the window at the house next door. She could just make out the familiar silhouette behind the glass. She let the net drop, then went quickly back to the kitchen where Raoul was waiting.

‘Madame Fournier’s at the front. Go.’

He kissed her and turned away in his borrowed clothes. Sandrine felt a tug of déjà vu. At least this time she knew he’d be coming back.

As she stood at the kitchen door and watched Raoul cross the garden and go out of the gate, she wondered when it would stop. The sense of the ground going from under her feet when she suddenly thought, against all common sense and knowledge, that she’d seen her father. In the street or at the turn of the stairs or sitting at the old desk in his study, his head bowed over some pamphlet or lecture he was writing. That he was still alive. She had not expected, after nearly four years, that grief would still cut so deep, so easily.

She wandered back into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. She glanced up at the clock. Two hours since Marianne and Suzanne had gone. Only two minutes since Raoul had left, but already she was restless. She felt out of sorts, partly because she had slept so long during the day. Although it was her decision they should never all be away from the house at the same time, Sandrine hated being cooped up inside.

She sat down at the kitchen table, then got up again. She took the glass from the draining board and, this time, went to the cupboard and poured herself a finger of red wine. They tried to make it last, and it was early in the day to start drinking, but she needed something to steady her nerves.

Sandrine took a deep breath and then, slowly, exhaled. She had learnt how to be confident on the outside, to be tougher than the men. To keep her nerve. She knew how important it was for the others that she gave no hint of doubt or indecision. But things were different when she was on her own. She didn’t have to put a brave face on it. The truth was, the thought of planning to murder in cold blood – even Authié – made her feel sick to her stomach. Every act of sabotage ‘Citadel’ had undertaken had been against property, buildings, supply chains. They had gone out of their way to make sure no one was killed – not Gestapo agents, and not Milice. Some casualties were unavoidable. There was little chance, for example, that the driver of the Berriac train had survived the blast. But planning an execution seemed different. Was different.

The résistants thought it was because they were women that they baulked at killing. Sandrine didn’t agree. The evidence was that direct assassinations usually led to extreme reprisals – hostages, executions, mass arrests – and ended up the worse for their side.

Fifteen months ago, one of their first direct actions as ‘Citadel’ was to hit a café used by the Gestapo. They’d timed it deliberately so there’d be no one there. It was intended more to cause disruption, to be a warning. It was three in the morning and the premises should have been empty. They weren’t. A senior SS officer – a second lieutenant – had been killed. However much she told herself he deserved it, Sandrine was horrified that she had taken another human life. When it came out that the man was notorious among the working girls of the Bastide for his violent tastes, she’d managed to persuade herself she had done a good thing. Untersturmführer Zundel – it had seemed important to know her victim’s name – was the first man she’d killed. There had been others since. But still she had never before sat down and worked out how to murder someone in the way she was intending to assassinate Authié.

Sandrine drained the wine and poured herself another small glass, then walked to the door and stood leaning against the jamb, looking out over the empty garden. Barely any figs on the tree this year. A shame. She hated figs now, having eaten too many of them – they all had – but they were better than nothing.

She swilled the wine round in her glass, wondering what Monsieur Baillard would think of the woman she’d become. Would he be proud of her? Disappointed at how easily she had crossed the line between compassion and retaliation? Sandrine often thought about him, measuring her decisions against what she imagined he might have done in the same situation. It seemed extraordinary to believe that, in fact, they had only met on a few occasions. Even more impossible to believe that he was dead.

Sandrine tipped her head back and drained the glass in one. It was possible, of course, that Authié would leave them alone. But they couldn’t risk sitting on their hands and waiting to find out. There was no reason to think that his presence was anything to do with the Codex. The public explanation for his return to Carcassonne made sense enough. He had been successful against the Resistance in the North. Now he was to repeat the trick in Carcassonne.

She shook her head. When she looked back on that first summer, at the fairy-tale promise of deliverance Monsieur Baillard told her the Codex could offer, she was astonished at how easily she’d believed such an impossible story. Two years of fighting and resistance, she knew the truth now. No chevaliers were riding to save them, like the tales of old, no Jeanne d’Arc.

No ghost army.

It was down to them, a small band of women and men, like all the other groups in the hills and the hidden alleyways. Just them against the Milice and the Gestapo and the might of the occupation. And with Monsieur Baillard gone, even though the Nazis still sent teams to excavate the mountains around Tarascon and Foix, there was no one to tell her about the ancient spirit of the Midi rising up to lead them to victory.

Sandrine sighed. There was so much to do, so many decisions on her shoulders. She didn’t even dream any more. The shimmering figures on the periphery of her mind, the sense of something beyond the world she could see, had gone. Silenced by fear and the relentless hardship of the lives they were forced to live.

No one was coming to help them. Everything was down to them. To her.

Chapter 110

In the very early hours of Tuesday morning, Yvette was waiting for the doors to be unlocked by the Gestapo officer on duty. A complicated system of passes, checks, going from one locked room to the next. Finally, she was out into the yard. Then the outer gate, and back on to the route de Toulouse.

‘Bon soir,’ she said.

The two guards ignored her, looked through her as if she didn’t exist. She wasn’t surprised. She didn’t know them – this wasn’t her usual shift; she’d needed to make up the money she’d lost by being ill last week – but they seemed the type to look down their noses, think it was beneath their dignity to be civil to the cleaning staff.

Yvette walked down towards the station. She was due to meet Robert in an unofficial late-night bar on the Canal du Midi, but she was much later than she’d expected. The problem was they were short-staffed, so she’d had to do a double shift back to back in order to get the job done. Fingers crossed he hadn’t given up and gone home. She could do with a drink and a bit of fun. He was a good man.

She walked quickly, quietly, through the labyrinth of streets behind the station. The shabby front door – no sign, no advertising – gave no indication that it was anything other than a private house. From the outside it was all quiet, but she rang the bell anyway.

A small hatch in the door was shot back. A black eye peered out into the unlit street, recognised her and let her in.

‘You’re late tonight,’ the doorman said.

She slipped him a coin. ‘You know how it is. A girl’s got to work.’

Yvette was forty if she was a day, but it was the sort of bar that made allowances. She untied her headscarf, put it in the pocket of her coat, then hung the coat up on the row of hooks that lined the left-hand wall.

‘Got many in tonight?’

‘A few,’ he said, climbing back on to his stool beside the door. ‘Go on down.’

She went along the dimly lit passageway, her shoes pinching her tired feet, pushed open the door and walked into a large open-plan room. The heat rushed out to meet her, the smell of booze and cigarettes and too many men in a confined space.

There were three bulbs hanging in a line from the ceiling, one red, one white, one almost blue, though the paint was peeling off. Along the width of the room, the large single window was blacked out. The bounce of light off the obscured glass, the attempt at patriotic colours and the haze of smoke gave everything a blurred, smudged air, as if looking at a scene with the wrong pair of glasses.

Yvette glanced around hopefully. There were six tables, with assorted unmatched chairs, and two baize card tables in the far corner. A selection of working men, all different ages, talking, playing bézique, two old-timers playing dominos. Only one other woman so far as she could see, no better than she ought to be. Cheap white earrings and a blouse that was several sizes too small.

She couldn’t immediately see Robert. Resigned to buying her first drink herself, Yvette went to the bar, a short wooden counter with bottles set in front of a mirror and glasses over the top of it. Robert told her once it had been ‘liberated’ from the Café Industriel when the military requisitioned all the buildings round the back of the Caserne d’Iéna. It looked temporary, but she knew it had been in the same spot for three years at least.

‘What can I get you?’ the barman asked.

‘The usual,’ Yvette said, pushing a note across the counter. ‘Robert been in?’

He put a glass of beer on the counter. ‘Talking to some young chap in the far corner, last I saw.’

She looked again, and this time saw him, sitting with his back to the room. She walked over, but he was so deep in conversation he didn’t notice her until she was standing right in front of him.

‘That’s a fine welcome, I’m sure.’

Robert broke off, pulling awkwardly at his moustache until he saw who it was. Then a smile broke out on his face.

‘All right, love?’ he said, levering himself to his feet. ‘I’ll get you a chair.’

She looked at the young man with him. ‘If I’m not interrupting . . .’

‘Not at all,’ Robert said. ‘Just passing the time until you came.’

She held out her hand to the stranger. ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’

‘Pleased to meet you . . .?’

‘Yvette.’

‘Yvette,’ the man repeated, offering her a cigarette.

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ she said, letting him light it for her. She waited for him to introduce himself, or for Robert to do it, but neither of them took the trouble.

‘Hard night?’ Robert said.

‘Long,’ she admitted. ‘Did a double shift.’

She glanced at Robert’s friend. He looked quite a serious young man, but lovely eyes. Funny kind of smile, a bit lopsided, but nice all the same.

‘You two old friends?’ she fished. ‘Relatives, maybe?’

The young man smiled at her. ‘Robert’s been telling me how they always rely on you to step in when they need an extra pair of hands. All top secret.’

‘He’s making it sound more important than it is,’ she said, blushing at the compliment. ‘Of course, I’d rather not work for them. You know. But what’s a girl to do?’ She glanced at Robert. ‘Can be useful, when all’s said and done.’

Robert put his heavy hand on her arm. ‘Very self-sufficient, Yvette. Knows how to look after herself. She’s a fine woman,’ he said, his words a little slurred. ‘I’m a lucky man.’

‘Get away with you! ’ she laughed.

‘A lot going on at the moment?’ the young man asked. ‘Robert says it’s been busy, cars going and coming.’

‘Last week, all go,’ she said, her face falling. ‘After that business in Montolieu, they brought a few of them in. A raid in Limoux too, poor sods.’ She took another mouthful of beer. ‘But not in the last few days. All quietened down again, for the time being.’

‘You don’t get the idea anything’s planned, then?’

She glanced at Robert to see if she should answer. He nodded.

‘When there’s something big, there are officers there round the clock. Lots of places I’m not allowed to get into to clean. Means it takes longer next time.’ She tapped her cigarette over the full glass ashtray in the middle of the table. ‘I have to hand it to them, they mostly keep things in order. Tidy, the Germans. Credit where credit’s due.’

‘So, busy tonight then, was it?’ the young man asked again.

‘Not at all. Quiet as the grave.’ She noticed his eyes narrow, as if what she’d said was of enormous significance, and sat a little straighter in her chair. He really was a most attentive young man.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Apart from the night guards on duty, miserable sods. They’re expecting someone, though. A lot of fuss about that. Some bigwig from Paris.’ She paused. ‘No, not Paris, Chartres.’

‘Really,’ he said. He smiled at her. She liked that. ‘How do you know, do they tell you things? I bet you don’t miss a trick!’

Yvette gave a trilling laugh, thoroughly gratified by the young man’s interest.

‘Don’t be daft,’ she said, tapping him playfully on the arm. ‘But they never pay any attention to us working people, hardly notice we’re there.’

She felt Robert’s possessive hand go round her waist. ‘Everyone notices you,’ he said, giving her a squeeze. ‘Good-looking girl like you.’

She pecked him on the cheek. ‘Isn’t he a one?’ she said to the young man, delighted at how the evening was going. She’d forgotten about her aching feet and her sore back from lugging the bucket up and down the stairs, the way the guards looked right through her. ‘Such a charmer,’ she giggled.

‘They were talking about someone coming, then?’ the young man said. ‘I don’t suppose you caught his name?’

Yvette frowned. ‘Well, I’m not sure they mentioned a name as such,’ she said. ‘He’s from the north, that much I do know, and he’s due to arrive some time on Friday. Sous-chef Schiffner was talking to that miserable toad of a lieutenant, Inspector Janeke, about some big dinner they’re holding in his honour. I didn’t get the impression Schiffner was best pleased about it, if truth be told.’

‘This is so interesting, Yvette. And where’s this swanky dinner to take place, did they let that out?’

‘In the Hôtel de la Cité,’ she said triumphantly. ‘They were complaining about having to get all the special passes made up for the staff.’

He smiled encouragingly. ‘And this is on Friday night?’

‘That’s what I gathered.’ She nodded. ‘Freitag,’ she said. ‘At least, I think that’s right. My German’s not perfect, just enough to get by.’

‘She’s a clever girl,’ Robert put in. ‘Speaks German and a bit of English too.’

‘Put the rest of us to shame, Yvette,’ the stranger said, getting to his feet. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

She was disappointed. ‘You’re not off already, are you?’

‘Need my beauty sleep,’ he said. ‘Unlike some!’

‘Get away,’ said Yvette, tapping him with her hand. ‘But don’t go on my account, not if you boys have got business to discuss. I’m discretion itself. Not a thing passes my lips.’

The young man smiled. ‘I only stayed this long because Robert wanted to introduce me to you, Yvette,’ he said. He put a couple of coins on the table. ‘Get yourself another on me.’

He dropped his voice. ‘Usual place, Bonnet?’

Robert nodded, not a trace of inebriation in his eyes. Then he held up his glass and said in the same loud, slurred voice, ‘Next time, it’s on me.’

The young man gave the slightest of bows. ‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you, mademoiselle.’

‘Mademoiselle indeed,’ she giggled. ‘A bientôt.’ But he was already halfway to the door.

Yvette sat back in her chair. ‘Seems a nice boy,’ she said. ‘Bit serious, but then they’re like that, those boys, aren’t they?’

‘What boys?’ Robert said sharply.

‘Oh, you know, boys,’ she said, looking wistfully after him.

Robert let his hand drop heavily on to her thigh. ‘One more for the road, then home? What do you say?’

She kissed him again. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’

Codex XIX

GAUL

TARASCO

JULY AD 344

The wooden carts stood ready to leave. Possessions piled high, cooking utensils, flagons of posca and barley beer, blankets for the nights, which even at this time of year could be cool.

‘We’ve discussed this so many times, Lupa,’ Arinius said wearily. ‘You said you would go. You promised.’

‘I said I would go when the time came. Not a moment before.’

Arinius put his hand on her shoulder. ‘The time has come,’ he said quietly. ‘The army is on the far side of the river. In three days, four at most, they will be here.’

Lupa turned and saw her sisters beckoning. She ignored them. Lifting the baby higher on her hip, a look of extreme stubbornness on her face, she turned back to face him. Despite himself, Arinius smiled. Already their son’s expression was a reflection of hers.

‘You only have to say the word,’ she said. ‘I told you I would obey you.’

He put his hand on her arm. ‘I will not command you, you know that.’

For a moment, her face softened, then she renewed her objections.

‘We have seen invaders off before.’

‘These are opponents of a different kind, Lupa. They come to kill, not to conquer.’

For a moment, a lightning flash of fear appeared in her eyes, but it was quickly doused.

‘God will protect us,’ she said. ‘Deus suos agnoscet,’ she recited, a touch of pride in her voice that she had remembered the Latin he’d taught her. ‘God will know his own, that’s what you told me.’ She glanced back at the friends, neighbours, waiting to leave. ‘It is what you told us all. They have faith in you, Arinius. So do I.’

‘And so He will,’ Arinius said. ‘But He would not want you to take unnecessary risks.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Please, I am looking to you to set an example. As my wife, you must take care of them. Lead them to safety.’

For a moment, still he thought she would refuse. But then, in one of the mercurial changes of temperament he so much loved, quicksilver like a fish in the river, she took him by surprise by standing on her tiptoes, leaning forward and kissing him on the lips.

‘Very well,’ she said.

‘Lupa?’ he said suspiciously, sensing some sleight of hand, some trick.

‘I will lead them to safety.’

Still he stared, but she was already walking away to join the others. She handed Marcellus to her grandmother, in one of the carts, then stood beside her two older sisters.

‘Come to fetch us soon,’ she called, her head held high. ‘I do not wish to spend the winter in the mountains without you.’

Grief suddenly overwhelmed him. Having been so intent on persuading her to go, he had forgotten how he would feel if she did what he asked. It was thanks to Lupa that he had learnt to love and to live in the world. She gave his life meaning, she and Marcellus. Arinius rushed forward and put his arms around her, held her tight, breathing the deep musk scent of her hair and her skin.

‘Arinius,’ she chided him softly.

He let her go, realising he was making it worse for them both. He kissed his little son on the top of his head, gave Lupa a last, private smile, then stepped away. He raised his right hand to bless their journey.

‘Dominus vobiscum,’ he said. Some of the young women made the sign of the cross, under the open gaze of their mothers and grandmothers and aunts. Then, under his breath, he told Lupa one last time that he loved her.

She smiled. ‘Te amo.’

The cart moved off, joining the chain of wooden wheels and rattling nails winding up the path through the box and the silver birch trees, the mules and the goats pulling the smaller traps.

Only once did Lupa turn round to look at him. Arinius watched as the cart rumbled into the shadow of the hill, then let his hand drop back to his side.

When they were out of sight, he put his hands together and prayed, with an open heart and with open eyes, for God to spare them all.

To spare her.

Arinius stood there a while longer, hoping for a sign that his orisons had been heard, but there was nothing. The sweet empty air settled around him. Then he heard his father-in-law calling his name.

With a final glance at the empty track, the forest now silent once more, he drew his sword and quickly walked down to join the men in the valley.

Chapter 111

CARCASSONNE

JULY 1944

‘We have to try,’ Sandrine said again.

She and Raoul were in the kitchen in the rue du Palais. It was late on Tuesday afternoon and they were at loggerheads. Had been ever since Sandrine had laid out her plan for getting to Authié. Neither of them wanted to fight, but they were unable to stop the row developing. Marianne and Suzanne had crept away and left them to it.

‘You’ll never get anywhere near him,’ Raoul said for the third time.

‘We – they – got Kromer,’ Sandrine said. ‘And Fournier with him.’

‘That was outside his house, in a public street,’ Raoul threw back. ‘The Cité is a garrison. It’s crawling with soldiers. Every one of the postern gates is either boarded up or manned twenty-four hours a day. The Porte de l’Aude has been bricked up and there are blockhouses on the Pont Vieux and all the approach roads. Even if you get in, you’ll never get out in one piece.’

Sandrine put her hand on his arm. ‘Raoul, I know all of this.’

He shrugged her off. ‘You won’t get anywhere near, surely you can see that. It’s too much of a risk. You could go with the others tonight. Go to Coustaussa with Marianne and Suzanne. Leave now before Authié gets back.’

Sandrine forced him to meet her eye. ‘You’re saying you think I should run away?’

‘It’s not running away, it’s common sense!’ he said, unable to stop his voice rising in frustration.

‘Don’t shout at me,’ she shouted.

‘Sandrine, please.’ He sighed. ‘Just for once listen to someone else’s advice. Listen to me. Please.’

She saw the desperation in his eyes, but knew she couldn’t let it affect her.

‘I have thought it all through, Raoul. If you’d listen to me, you’d see that I – we – can pull this off. We have people inside the Hôtel de la Cité and—’

‘That won’t do any good! ’ he said, throwing his hands in the air.

‘Germans as well as local supporters,’ she continued.

‘I know that.’ Suddenly the fight went out of him. ‘Why does it have to be you?’ he said quietly.

‘Because it does,’ Sandrine said.

Raoul pulled a hand-rolled cigarette from his breast pocket and lit it. The match grated loud, rough, in the quiet room.

‘I’m serious,’ he said. ‘Let me go in your place.’

Sandrine stared at him. ‘Don’t you think I’m capable of it?’

‘That’s not the point.’

‘Then what is the point, tell me?’ she demanded.

Raoul sighed, pushed his fingers through his hair, paced up and down, the floorboards creaking under his anxious feet.

‘There are some things you shouldn’t be doing,’ he said in the end. ‘That’s all.’

‘Because I’m a woman?’

‘No, that’s not what I mean. I don’t think like that, you know I don’t.’

Sandrine took a deep breath. She knew they were arguing because they were frightened about what might happen, both of them.

‘Look,’ she said quietly. ‘I know you’re trying to protect me, but there’s no need. There’s much less chance of success if you go. You are more likely to be stopped than I am.’ She took his hands in hers. ‘We have to try, you know we do. The moment Authié gets to Carcassonne, whatever the real reason for him coming back, we’ve lost the advantage. We have to strike. If it wasn’t me, you’d agree to it like a shot.’

Raoul was about to argue, then stopped.

‘You see,’ she said, ‘you know I’m right.’

He didn’t answer, so she carried on. ‘Of course there will be extra security around the Cité, but I’ve taken that into account. Marianne knows someone who works in the kitchens of the Hôtel de la Cité. Suzanne’s copying her pass to make one for me.’

Despite himself, Raoul was drawn in. ‘Will it be good enough?’

‘Suzanne’s good. We’ll see. I think so.’

Sandrine looked at him for a moment, then went to the row of glass jars above the stove. Once, Marieta had filled them with rice and salt and flour. She reached up and took out the stock from one, the magazine from another, and started to assemble the gun. Usually she kept it loaded, but the mechanism tended to jam. After Monday’s expedition to Berriac, she’d taken it apart to clean it.

‘Surely you’re not going to attempt to shoot him?’ Raoul said. ‘There’s no way you’ll get close enough. At least, not close enough to have a clear shot and get away without being caught.’

‘I know,’ Sandrine said, locking the magazine into place.

‘What then? A bomb?’

She nodded. ‘Not in the hotel itself, of course. Too many people.’

‘Where?’

Sandrine was relieved Raoul was finally treating it like any other operation. He seemed to have put his objections to one side, for the time being at least.

‘Schiffner and Authié are scheduled to take a tour of the lices before they go into dinner. Only Gestapo and Milice will accompany them, no civilians. Our people inside the hotel will make sure everyone stays well out of range during the time that matters.’

‘Suzanne’s making the device, I suppose?’

‘Yes.’ Sandrine nodded. ‘Her record’s better than most. You know they call her “le fabricant ”. They assume she’s a man, of course.’

‘It’s true,’ Raoul said wryly. For an instant, a flash of humour came into his black eyes. ‘Not a single résistant has been injured on her watch, that’s what they say.’

‘And they’re right.’

‘It’s some record,’ Raoul said. Many of the smaller injuries suffered by partisans were the result of improvised devices going off too early, blowing up in people’s hands before they’d been properly primed.

Sandrine pushed her black curls back behind her ears and looked him in the eye. ‘So? What’s it to be?’

Raoul met her gaze and held it for a few long seconds. ‘What do I think?’ he said. ‘I think it could work, but . . .’

‘Good,’ she interrupted.

‘But it’s a long shot. And . . .’ He paused, framing the words carefully. ‘And I want to help. You have to have back-up, Sandrine.’

‘No, I don’t want you . . .’

She stopped. She resented him trying to protect her, yet here she was considering doing the same thing to him. Usually she had Suzanne and Marianne as back-up. If they went to Coustaussa tonight, as planned, they wouldn’t be available and she didn’t want them to delay their departure.

‘What is it?’ he asked, puzzled by her expression.

Sandrine smiled. ‘I accept your offer,’ she said. ‘It will make everything better if you’re with me.’

Raoul stared at her, then let out a long sigh of relief. ‘Well, that’s something.’ He smiled, then his expression changed. ‘Right. When do you plan to do this?’

‘Suzanne’s out in the Bastide getting hold of what she needs to construct the device. All being well, I’ll put the bomb in place tomorrow night, before Authié arrives and security is stepped up.’

‘How’s it going to be detonated?’

‘I’ll go back and do it,’ she said. ‘I can’t see any other option. They will be searching all bags on Friday, of course, even more than usual, but since I won’t have anything incriminating with me, that should be fine. Then all I’ve got to do is get to the device in time.’

‘But if . . .’ He stopped.

Sandrine guessed he’d been about to object again, but this time he thought better of it. Instead he cupped her face with his hands and kissed her on the forehead.

‘You are too brave for your own good, ma belle.’

‘Brave?’ she said, looking down at the gun in her hands. She didn’t feel brave, only scared.

Sandrine suddenly remembered a conversation she’d had with Marianne in this very kitchen, the morning after the demonstration. Two years ago, she hadn’t understood what Marianne was trying to tell her about the chasm between what she did and how she felt about it. To Sandrine, then, everything had sounded exciting and courageous.

Now she understood. She shook her head.

‘No,’ she said, echoing her sister’s words. ‘I’m not brave. I hate it, I hate it all. But there’s no choice.’

Chapter 112

TARASCON

At ten o’clock on Wednesday morning, the funeral procession left the église de la Daurade and made its way slowly towards the yew-lined avenue that led to the cemetery. At the head of the line, behind her husband’s coffin, Célestine Déjean walked slowly and with dignity on the arm of Eloise Breillac. Geneviève and her mother were a few steps behind.

Achille Pujol stood apart from the others. He was there as a family friend, one of Pierre’s only surviving comrades-in-arms, but his darting eyes betrayed the fact he was watching the blue berets of the miliciens, rifles cradled in their arms. A little behind them, four Gestapo soldiers.

Audric Baillard fell in beside him. He was very thin, his wrists, neck and shoulders jutting through his collar and cuffs. His lined face was gaunt and his once thick white hair was little more than down on his head, but his eyes were the same amber colour. Autumn leaves turning to gold.

‘Achille,’ he said quietly.

At first Pujol frowned at the intrusion, then his expression changed. First to horror at the sight of his friend, then to joy.

‘Audric, how the hell . . .?’ He shook his head. ‘Damn you, I thought you were dead. We all did.’ He broke off and peered. ‘It is you?’

Baillard smiled. ‘Yes, amic.’

‘You look dreadful.’

‘I am well aware of that,’ Baillard said lightly.

‘Where in the name of God have you been?’ said Pujol, under his breath.

‘Not here.’ Baillard looked at the cortège. ‘What happened?’

Pujol sighed. ‘Fact is, Pierre never recovered from Antoine’s death. Célestine is strong, but Pierre . . . Kept going as long as he could, I suppose, but in the end he gave up.’

Baillard nodded, then his eyes drifted to the soldiers. ‘Why so many?’

‘There are teams of Nazi archaeologists and engineers everywhere down here,’ Pujol said heavily. ‘Worst at Montségur, but also Montferrier, Ussat-les-Bains, Quéribus. Lombrives and Niaux, you can imagine.’

‘Soularac?’

‘Soularac?’ Pujol said, narrowing his eyes. ‘Not so far as I’ve heard.’

‘Good.’

Pujol waited for a moment, in case Baillard had something to add, then continued.

‘Added to which, they suspect Tarasconnais are smuggling food and supplies to the Maquis at Salvezines and the Roc Blanc. Our own lads.’

‘Are they right?’

‘Of course they’re right,’ Pujol growled. ‘I’m surprised you even need to ask.’

Baillard held up his hand. ‘Forgive me, my friend. I have been gone some time. Things change.’

‘Not here they don’t,’ said Pujol fiercely. He jerked his head towards the phalanx of soldiers. ‘They’re hoping some of the maquisards will come to pay their respects.’

‘They would not be so ill advised, surely?’

Pujol shrugged. ‘You know what these boys are. Living like outlaws in the hills. Put a gun in their hand, think they’re invincible.’

Baillard gave a thoughtful smile. ‘We used to call them faydits,’ he said. ‘Dispossessed. Now they are maquisards. But it is the same spirit, all the same.’

‘Faydits? You’re about seven hundred years out of date, Audric,’ Pujol said. ‘Anyway, Célestine put them right. Told them she’d tan their hides if any of them set foot in the town.’ He gave a brief smile. ‘Oh yes, none of them would get very far without Célestine.’ He stopped, the smile slipping from his face and the strain painfully evident. ‘It’s been two years, Audric,’ he said softly. ‘I thought you were dead.’

Baillard sighed. ‘I know, my friend. I know.’

The two old men looked at each other for a moment, then Baillard glanced again at the blue berets of the Milice.

‘If you do not mind, I shall excuse myself for now.’ He dropped his voice. ‘But you do still have the map? It is safe?’

Pujol nodded. ‘It’s just where you left it.’

Baillard let out a long exhalation of release. ‘Then there is still hope,’ he said.

‘Even when we couldn’t find you, Audric, I could never bring myself to believe you were gone. That you wouldn’t be back,’ Pujol said in a rush, then stopped and turned red.

Baillard put his hand on the other man’s arm. ‘I am here now, Achille.’

‘Yes, yes, of course you are,’ he said gruffly, embarrassed by his show of emotion. He stepped back into the line. ‘I’ll meet you at my house later, as soon as I can get away. There’s a wake at the Oliverot. I ought to show my face.’

‘Thank you.’

‘The key’s where it always was,’ Pujol said. ‘And help yourself to something to eat. God knows, you look like you could do with it.’

When Pujol arrived, it was past two o’ clock. Baillard was sitting at the kitchen table holding the antique glass bottle in his hand.

‘You found it, then?’

‘It is more of a relief to find this kept safe than you can know, Achille.’

Pujol shambled to the cupboard, got out two glasses, filled them with Guignolet. He handed one to Baillard, then sat down opposite him.

‘Did you find something to eat?’

‘What I needed, yes.’

Pujol nodded. ‘What happened, Audric? Where’ve you been? I thought they’d got you. We all did.’

Baillard closed his eyes. Memories of his long, debilitating, violent incarceration came rushing back. The smell and the heat. Later, the cold. The endless sounds of suffering and the stench of the ditches filled with corpses and excrement when dysentery spread through the camp. In the past, in his youth, Baillard had seen epidemics like it – siege sickness, they used to call it – but nothing as bad as what he had witnessed in the past two years.

‘Audric?’ Pujol prompted.

He opened his eyes. ‘Before I tell you, what of you, amic? What of here? How many have we lost?’

‘Too many,’ Pujol said in a quiet voice. ‘From Tarascon, Espéraza, Couiza, Coustaussa, Limoux, all over the valleys.’ He trailed off. ‘Too many.’

‘Each life lost is one too many,’ Baillard said. ‘The things I have seen, the stories I have heard about the camps in the East. This is a war like no other I have known, Achille.’ He shook his head, as if trying to shake away the memories. ‘Forgive me. Tell me of life here.’

‘Very well,’ Pujol sighed, accepting that Baillard would not tell his story until he was ready. ‘Pierre and old Breillac are gone,’ he said. ‘Gestapo. Both went down fighting. Young Guillaume is still fighting. Formed the Couiza Maquis with Yves Rousset. Do you know him?’

‘I know Madame Rousset.’

‘Guillaume’s wife Eloise is still hereabouts. Geneviève and Liesl stayed in Coustaussa with Marieta.’

A slow smile spread across Baillard’s face. ‘That is the best news yet, my friend. She was so ill, I feared she might not have survived another winter.’

‘I knew you’d be pleased,’ Pujol said with a satisfied smile. ‘Marieta’s still going strong. Will see the rest of us out, I don’t doubt. Looks after those girls like a mother hen.’

‘Good, ben.’ Baillard smiled, nodding his head. He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. ‘And Madomaisèla Sandrine and her sister?’

‘They both returned to Carcassonne shortly after you left. They do a great deal to help the résistants there. Taking messages, keeping lookout, what have you. Mademoiselle Ménard and her son stayed in Coustaussa for a time, but went back to Carcassonne last summer.’

‘Her son, you say?’

Pujol smiled. ‘Jean-Jacques. Bright as a button, must be eighteen months old by now.’

‘Tèn perdu, jhamâi se recobro,’ murmured Baillard, thinking of all he had missed and all that was yet to come. The joy as well as the sorrow.

‘What’s that you’re saying?’

‘Time lost can never be regained,’ Baillard translated. ‘An old Occitan proverb my grandmother, Esclarmonde, was rather fond of.’ He smiled. ‘And Sénher Pelletier?’

‘He, too, has proved to be a courageous man. With Guillaume and Yves some of the time, but travels to Carcassonne to help there too.’

Baillard raised his eyebrows. ‘And to see Madomaisèla Sandrine?’

‘That too,’ Pujol said impatiently. ‘But now, for pity’s sake, tell me where you’ve been.’

Baillard looked into the honest, anxious face of his friend. He raised his arms and then let them fall again, a gesture of resignation.

‘I was caught, Achille. That very day after I left you. A collaborator, pretending to be a partisan. Walked straight into a trap some two hours out of Ax-les-Thermes.’

Pujol drained his glass and poured himself another measure. The air in the kitchen was infused with the sweet smell of cherries.

‘Where did they take you?’

‘I was arrested, one of five or six raids that day.’ Baillard sighed. ‘They asked for me by name.’

‘Why?’

He shrugged. ‘I had done that route many times. Too many times, perhaps. Someone talked.’ He paused, as he took himself back to that day. ‘Two of those I was helping knew who I was – a Jewish scholar, quite brilliant, and a Dutch résistant – but did not give me away. I was able to give false information and so was charged under that name instead.’

‘That explains why “Baillard” didn’t show up on any lists,’ Pujol said. ‘I checked everywhere.’

Baillard smiled. ‘Thank you, my friend.’

Pujol flushed. ‘You’d have done the same for me,’ he said gruffly, then waved his hand for him to continue.

‘During those first weeks after I was arrested, I was moved from place to place. It was only after the Germans crossed the line and occupied the Midi as well that I was finally sent to a satellite camp close to Rivesaltes.’

‘So near,’ Pujol said, shaking his head. ‘If only I’d known you were there, Audric, I swear I would—’

‘I know, my friend. Don’t reproach yourself. We were the unwanted prisoners. Too old to fill the STO quotas, most of us veterans of other wars.’

‘Left to rot.’

‘That saved us,’ Baillard said simply. ‘We were not considered dangerous. They assumed that age and the bitter weather would do their work for them.’ He paused. ‘The worst of it was knowing how much needed to be done, but being trapped, unable to act.’

He fell silent, remembering his sense of frustration and rage. The endless tiny humiliations of the camp, the relentless grinding down of men’s spirits. The waste of life.

‘Audric,’ Pujol said gently, misinterpreting his silence, ‘you don’t have to go on if it’s too much.’

‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘If I do not, you will imagine things to be worse than they were.’

Baillard recounted the story of his incarceration and his escape, then gave a long sigh. He took a sip of Guignolet, letting the sugar and alcohol ease his bones, before continuing. ‘We waited until it was dark, then the Spaniard and I went our separate ways. García headed for the border. I came here.’

‘I still can’t quite believe it,’ Pujol said gruffly, digging in his pocket for a scrap of tobacco. He rolled himself a thin cigarette. ‘You made good time, I’ll give you that. It must be a hundred and fifty kilometres, give or take.’

‘People were kind. I walked to Collioure, then found a lift almost all of the way to Belcaire. From there, cross-country to here.’

Pujol put out his hand and touched Baillard’s arm. ‘You can stay here as long as you want. You need to rest. Recover your strength.’

Baillard reached out and took the antique glass bottle from the table. ‘I have rested long enough, amic. This task I must now finish.’

Pujol’s expression changed. ‘Not that, Audric. Surely not now, after all this time. Why stir it all up again? Let sleeping dogs lie.’

For a moment, Baillard didn’t speak. He turned the bottle over in his hand, thinking about the precious information contained in the map.

‘Why, Audric?’

He sighed. ‘Because it was announced this morning on the wireless – I heard it at the Café de la Gare as I waited to see you – that Leo Authié is being sent back to the Midi. Although it is said he is to lead the fight against the Resistance, I do not believe that is the true reason.’

Pujol’s expression froze. ‘He’s just one man,’ he said eventually. ‘There are many like him. Leave it be, Baillard. The tide is turning in our favour. Don’t draw attention to yourself.’

Baillard met his gaze. ‘It is true that Führer Hitler is losing the war. And after the Allied success in northern France, it is likely he will pull back troops from the south to defend Paris and the eastern territories.’

‘Well then.’

Baillard shook his head. ‘Do you not understand, Achille? This will make Authié more dangerous, not less. More desperate. He is a clever man. He knows there is little time left. When the Wehrmacht leave the Midi, he is aware of what his fate will be. If he is to find the Codex, he needs to act now and be ready to leave when the Nazis withdraw.’

‘There’s not been a whisper they ever found out the document was a forgery,’ Pujol said. ‘Not a hint of it.’

‘Saurat is dead. He has family near Collioure, that’s why I went there first. His cousin told me he died in Montluc at the hands of Hauptsturmführer Barbie.’ He sighed. ‘He will have talked, Achille. For all his qualities, he was not a strong man.’

‘Poor devil,’ muttered Pujol.

Baillard looked out of the window towards the Pic de Vicdessos in the distance. The fierce afternoon sun blasted down upon the exposed peaks, casting long shadows across the land.

‘Authié has spent the past two years in Chartres, if the wireless report is to be believed. So I am certain, now, for whom he works and what other prize that man is seeking.’ His voice hardened. ‘I intend to make sure he does not get it.’

‘If you say so, Audric.’

‘The story is coming to its end, amic,’ he said. ‘This story, at least.’

‘So long as it’s a happy ending,’ Pujol muttered.

Baillard did not answer.

Chapter 113

CARCASSONNE

Sandrine stood by the sink, feeling the cold edge of the porcelain in the small of her back. Marianne was at the stove. Raoul was sitting at the table, his hands in his pockets, watching Suzanne work.

Suzanne placed her ingredients on the table. Forty centimetres of cast-iron pipe, a section of a drainpipe taken from one of the derelict houses near the abattoir in the Aire de la Pépinière. The pipe was already packed with explosive. Sandrine watched as she bolted a stopper into each end, drilled a small hole about halfway down, and pushed into it a fuse that went down into the explosive.

‘It’s a simple, reliable, basic device,’ Suzanne said. ‘A child could do it. There’s two centimetres of fuse here, which will take about two minutes to burn, give or take.’

Sandrine glanced at Raoul’s face.

‘Not much time to get out of the way,’ he said.

‘Long enough,’ Sandrine replied.

‘What’s the rest of it?’ Raoul asked, pointing at the duplicate parts.

‘A decoy,’ Sandrine explained. ‘We’ve done it before, placing two identical devices in locations close to one another – one in the Tour du Grand Burlas and the other in the Tour de la Justice – except one is live and the other one’s a dummy. It means that if anyone talks, the soldiers have a fifty-fifty chance of finding the wrong device rather than the real one.’

Raoul nodded. ‘Good idea. Who’s responsible for the dummy?’

‘Gaston has a friend who works in a restaurant by the Porte de l’Aude, a kitchen porter. He’s going to set it in the Tour de la Justice tonight. It’s the closest we can get to the Hôtel de la Cité, where the dinner’s being held.’

Suzanne turned to Marianne. ‘Is that ready yet?’

Marianne came over from the stove holding the tin saucepan at arm’s length in front of her. Raoul wafted his hand in front of his nose.

‘Goose fat,’ Suzanne said, seeing the expression on his face. ‘Vile smell, I grant you, but the best way to keep the pipe airtight. More efficient than wax. Less volatile.’

They watched as Suzanne greased the pipe, then put the last few components in place.

‘Right, that’s done.’

She stood up, gathered everything up in a tea towel and gently carried the device to the sideboard beside the kitchen door. Marianne handed her a cloth for her hands.

‘I’ll show you what to do before we go,’ Suzanne said to Sandrine. ‘You’re sure you don’t want me to stay? Just until it’s in place, at least.’

Sandrine glanced at her sister and saw the look of resignation in her eyes, then shook her head.

‘No, it’s all right. Better you should go. Take the package to Gaston, then catch tonight’s train. Who knows when there’ll be another.’ She smiled. ‘Raoul and I will manage.’

‘Isn’t Lucie going with you two?’ Raoul asked.

Marianne shook her head. ‘Not at the moment. She doesn’t want to uproot Jean-Jacques.’ She paused. ‘Suzanne’s mother is very fond of him. She helps out with him a great deal.’

‘Lucie should be all right,’ Sandrine said, seeing the look of concern on Raoul’s face. ‘She’s so changed since Authié last saw her. And even if he did go looking for her, he’d never think to try Madame Peyre’s address.’

Raoul nodded, but Sandrine could see he wasn’t convinced.

‘The most important thing at this moment is for Suzanne and Marianne to leave,’ she said.

‘Are you ready?’ Marianne asked Suzanne.

‘I need to pack this lot up, then change.’

‘The train isn’t until six thirty, is it?’ Sandrine said.

‘Yes, but the checks are bound to take some time,’ Marianne said. ‘Why don’t I do this for you,’ she offered, gesturing at the components for the decoy, ‘and you go and get ready.’

‘Give me five minutes,’ Suzanne said, walking out of the kitchen. Seconds later, Sandrine heard the heavy tread of her boots on the stairs.

For a moment, no one said anything.

‘Could you do me a favour and check the wireless, Raoul?’ Sandrine said. ‘Just in case something’s happened we should be aware of. There should be a bulletin any minute now.’

Realising that she wanted time to say goodbye to Marianne in private, he got up quickly and went out of the room.

The two sisters were left alone. Marianne found a canvas bag and carefully put the parts into it, then sat down at the table again. Overhead, they could hear Suzanne moving about.

‘This is it, then,’ Marianne said.

‘For a day or two, that’s all,’ Sandrine said. ‘We’ll do what we have to do, then we’ll join you. By Sunday we’ll all be together in Coustaussa.’ She smiled. ‘Like old times.’

Marianne nodded. ‘Now the time’s come, I can’t wait to see Marieta. I’ve tried not to miss her too much.’

‘Me too,’ Sandrine said. ‘Though I bet she won’t have changed a bit.’

Marianne smiled. ‘I wonder what Liesl will be like? Two years is a long time between sixteen and eighteen.’

‘Raoul says she’s very beautiful.’

Marianne threw a glance at her. ‘Is that a touch of jealousy?’

Sandrine blushed. ‘No, not at all. I’m just saying.’

Marianne laughed, then the smile slid from her face. ‘You will be careful, won’t you?’

‘You know I will,’ she said softly. ‘And Raoul will be with me. He’ll make sure I’m all right.’

Marianne nodded. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been going to pieces in the last few weeks. You keep going and keep going then, suddenly, you lose your nerve. No reason, or rather . . . I suppose Suzanne being picked up, that did for me.’

Sandrine nodded. ‘I know. I understand.’

She hesitated, then decided to ask outright what she had known for a long time.

‘You love her,’ she said.

Marianne met her gaze. She hesitated, on the point of framing the conventional response, then stopped. It was clear in her face that she, too, was conscious of the fact that however much care Sandrine, or Marianne herself, took – however matter-of-fact their conversation – this might be the last time they spoke to each other.

‘I do.’

‘Did Thierry realise?’ Sandrine asked, genuinely curious. ‘Or is it a more recent thing?’

‘Certainly Thierry knew.’ Marianne smiled. ‘It suited him just as well, you see. Harder for him, of course.’

Sandrine frowned, then realised what Marianne was saying. ‘Oh. I see. You were a cover for him.’

‘It’s the only good thing that’s come out of any of this,’ she said quietly. ‘In some ways, it’s been easier than it would have been in peacetime.’

The sound of Suzanne coming back down the stairs brought the conversation to a close.

‘I’m glad for you,’ Sandrine said quickly.

Marianne nodded. ‘Me too.’ She turned and smiled as Suzanne walked in. ‘Are you ready to go?’

Suzanne nodded. ‘All set,’ she said.

The three women walked back into the hall, where two suitcases were sitting at the bottom of the stairs. Raoul came out of the salon to say goodbye.

‘We’ll join you as soon as we can,’ he said. ‘Sunday, Monday at the latest.’

‘Look after her,’ Marianne said, as Raoul hugged her.

‘I will.’

Raoul shook hands with Suzanne, then went back into the salon to act as lookout at the window.

‘You’re clear on what to do?’ Suzanne said to Sandrine.

‘Lord, you two are as bad as each other,’ she said with a smile. ‘I will be careful, as I always am. I will go through the exact same procedures as I always do.’ She smiled. ‘And it will be fine, as it always is. Don’t worry.’

‘All clear,’ Raoul called from the salon.

‘All the copies of Libertat were collected by the couriers,’ Suzanne said, ‘so nothing to worry about there.’

‘Good.’

Suzanne turned to Marianne. ‘I’ll see you on the platform at half past five. If for any reason I’m not there, you go on. I’ll catch you up.’

‘Why wouldn’t you be there?’ Marianne said quickly. ‘I’m not going without you.’

‘Come on, don’t get rattled. It’s just the usual precautions, you know how it is. I will be there. But if there’s a problem, it will be better if I know you’re on your way. Safe. You see?’

Marianne pulled herself together. ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

Sandrine opened the door. Suzanne picked up her suitcase, then, without a backward glance, walked down the steps and away to the right, out of sight.

A few minutes later, Marianne did the same, though headed in the opposite direction, away from the station.

Sandrine stood listening to her sister’s footsteps echoing down the rue du Palais, blinking away the tears. Neither of them had said it, but both sisters knew it was possible they were saying goodbye to their childhood home for ever.

‘Just us now,’ she said, as Raoul came to stand beside her.

‘Just us,’ he said, putting his arms around her.

Finally, and for the first time in longer than she could remember, Sandrine gave in. She broke down and cried. Raoul held her, stroking her hair and saying nothing.

Chapter 114

TARASCON

‘POUR ARRÊTER LES CRIMES DE LA GESTAPO ET MILICE,’ Baillard said, reading the headline on the tract lying on Pujol’s kitchen table. ‘Where did this come from?’

‘The railway station,’ Pujol said with a smile. ‘The guard said there was a suitcase under the seat in the last carriage. Nobody claimed it, so he opened it up and found about fifty of these inside. He called the Milice, but of course they were all otherwise occupied keeping guard at Pierre Déjean’s funeral, so the perpetrator – whoever he was – was long gone.’

‘Of course,’ Baillard said. ‘What happened to the rest of them?’

‘As the guard explained to the milicien who came to collect the suitcase, there was an unfortunate gust of wind at about the moment he opened the lid, so strong he was unable to prevent some of the tracts from being blown out of the station and into the street.’

A smile lit Baillard’s gaunt face. ‘Es vertat. It is true that the Tramontana can be particularly fierce at this time of year.’

The two old men looked at one another. Pujol read the headline again.

‘Sure you didn’t write this yourself, Baillard?’ he chuckled. ‘The fact that it’s called Libertat rather than Libération or Liberté? And that final sentence – “the world belongs to the brave” – sounds like something you’d come out with.’ He gave a snort of amusement. ‘It’s my guess this is what you’ve been doing. Your story about being in a prison camp is all just a cover, isn’t it?’

Baillard held up both hands in mock surrender. Pujol gave a bark of laughter, then sat down in the chair opposite, expelling air from his lungs as the cushion expelled dust.

‘It is a good piece of work,’ Baillard said. ‘Honourable.’

Baillard wondered. In Coustaussa he had talked to Sandrine Vidal about how important it was to bear witness to the truth. Had he used the word libertat to her? If so, was it possible that she had taken the suggestion?

‘Honourable?’ Pujol said, picking up the newspaper. ‘Yes, I suppose it is. I haven’t come across this one before.’ He shook his head. ‘These photographs, it must have taken a great deal of courage to get them.’

‘So you do not know who might be responsible?’

‘Not a clue,’ said Pujol. ‘There are so many, they come and go. Most of them get shut down in the end,’ he added, the smile fading from his eyes. ‘You know how it is.’

Baillard nodded. There had been several well-publicised arrests by Gestapo of résistants working for the underground press. The men had all been executed, the women deported to Ravensbrück, a camp just north of Berlin.

Pujol shambled to the cupboard, took out two glasses and a bottle of red wine, then sat back down at the table.

‘Have a little something, go on,’ he said. ‘Present from the mother of one of the lads up the hill, you know. Help keep your spirits up.’

Baillard smiled properly this time. ‘Your answer to everything, Achille!’

‘Have you got a better suggestion?’

As Baillard took the glass, there was a tap at the front door and the atmosphere shifted. Pujol gestured for him to go into the bedroom, out of sight. Baillard nodded and left, taking his glass with him.

Pujol put his own down on the table and shambled into the corridor.

‘All right, all right, I’m on my way.’

‘It’s me, Inspector Pujol.’

Pujol stopped and called back to Baillard. ‘It’s all right, it’s Geneviève Saint-Loup.’

Baillard emerged from his hiding place and went back into the kitchen as Geneviève and Eloise came rushing down the corridor.

‘It is you! ’ said Geneviève with delight. ‘Eloise, I was right. It was Monsieur Baillard.’

She rushed up to him, then stopped. Baillard saw her battling not to let her shock at his emaciated appearance show. Eloise had no such qualms.

‘You look terrible!’ she said.

‘Eloise!’ Geneviève said, elbowing her in the ribs.

Baillard smiled. ‘Already I begin to improve at the sight of you all.’

‘Marieta will be so happy to see you, Monsieur Baillard,’ said Geneviève. ‘She always said you would come back.’

Baillard sighed. ‘We have experienced many things over the years, she and I,’ he said quietly. ‘Death and loss. Yes, I believe she would have known.’

‘That’s odd,’ Eloise said, pointing at the iridescent bottle on the table.

Baillard’s eyes narrowed. ‘How so?’

‘Our father had one just like it, didn’t he, Geneviève?’ She picked it up. ‘Do you know, in fact, I think it’s the same one. Look at the hole at the top.’

‘What happened to it, Madomaisèla?’

‘I’m not altogether sure, pawned probably, or sold. It was a family heirloom, passed down from generation to generation, but it wouldn’t have mattered. He was always in debt.’

‘Can you remember when you last saw it?’

Eloise shook her head. ‘It was the first time – though not the last – that we had no money and everything was sold. I seem to remember he sold boxes of stuff to some German chap who was setting up a guest house near Montségur. Don’t think it lasted long.’

Pujol’s eyes widened. ‘Could it be Rahn, Baillard?’

‘Possibly,’ Baillard said.

‘But if Rahn had it, surely he would have looked inside?’

‘Not if, as Madomaisèla Eloise says, it was in a box with many other objects.’

Pujol frowned. ‘You think Rahn had it all shipped back to Germany, then found it just before he died and sent it to Antoine Déjean?’

‘I think that might very well be the case,’ Baillard said thoughtfully. ‘I do not suppose you remember when this happened?’

Eloise shook her head. ‘Not precisely. I was little, no more than nine or ten, which makes it about fifteen years ago.’ She turned to her sister. ‘You were even younger, so I don’t suppose you recall anything about it.’

But Geneviève was staring at the newspaper. Baillard saw the look of surprise in her eyes, then alarm, and his earlier suspicions were confirmed. He put the bottle to one side.

‘The wind has done the work,’ he said innocently. ‘It seems a suitcase was left at the railway station and the contents were blown about.’

‘How unfortunate,’ said Eloise.

Baillard looked at them both, then slowly a smile broke across his face.

‘I wonder, Madomaisèla Geneviève, do you know something about this publication, Libertat?’

‘It is difficult to say . . . ’ she replied, throwing a glance at her sister.

Baillard’s smile grew even wider. ‘I do not think she would object to you telling me, Madomaisèla Geneviève,’ he said quietly. ‘But, of course, you must be guided by your conscience.’

Pujol stared at Baillard, then at the two girls. ‘Do you have the first idea what he’s talking about?’

‘The thing is . . .’ Geneviève began to say.

Baillard suddenly let out a bellow of laughter. It was so out of character, and so unexpected, that Pujol jumped in surprise.

‘What the devil’s got into you, Audric?’ he said irritably.

‘Monsieur Baillard knows anyway, I think,’ Eloise said, sitting down at the table.

‘Perhaps you could humour an old man, madomaisèla,’ he said. ‘You forget, I have been gone for some time.’

‘Of course, Monsieur Baillard.’ Genevieve smiled. ‘Liesl took the photographs. I took the film and left it at the boîte aux lettres in Limoux on Sunday, for Raoul to collect and take to Carcassonne.’ She glanced at the images. ‘All went to plan, clearly.’

‘Suzanne’s in charge of the printing,’ Eloise said. ‘Marianne sees to the distribution, with the help of two brothers. I don’t know their names, but they’re local. Originally contacts of Raoul, I think.’

Baillard nodded. ‘And this?’ he said, pointing to the small paragraph about the sabotage of the Berriac tunnel.

For a split second, Geneviève hesitated. But knowing that, of all people, Monsieur Baillard could be trusted, she explained how ‘Citadel’ had come into being.

As the Saint-Loup sisters talked, the story passing backwards and forwards between them, Baillard watched his friend’s craggy face. Pujol’s astonishment was obvious, for although he knew that the girls ran errands for the Resistance and helped to carry food and messages to the maquisards in the hills, it was clear he’d never dreamt of anything more.

‘I’d heard a story or two about a network with women in it, but I mean to say . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Never thought for a moment it was true.’

‘It is because others think the same as you do, amic, that they have remained undiscovered for this long.’

‘And who’s running the show?’ asked Pujol.

Eloise and Geneviève didn’t say anything. Baillard allowed a brief smile to touch his lips.

‘Well?’ Pujol said. ‘Pelletier?’

‘No, not Sénher Pelletier,’ Baillard replied.

‘Who, then?’ Pujol demanded, sounding irritated.

Baillard took a moment before he answered. ‘Two years ago,’ he said slowly, ‘Madomaisèla Sandrine and I discussed what might be done. Unless I am much mistaken, she is behind both the newspaper and the réseau “Citadel”.’

He looked at Geneviève. ‘I am right, madomaisèla?’

She smiled, then she nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Sandrine Vidal,’ Pujol objected. ‘But she’s only a child!’

Baillard sighed. ‘I know. But this is a war like no other, my friend. It is no respecter of age or experience. In this war, everyone is involved. Men, women, the very old and the very young.’ He picked up the newspaper and looked at the block-letter headline again. ‘A war like no other.’

Chapter 115

CARCASSONNE

At seven o’clock on Thursday 13 July, Leo Authié drove along the boulevard Maréchal Pétain. As the car glided past the building where his office had been, he saw a white banner with the word FELDKOMMANDANTUR 743 on it. Though it was dusk, he could see that two swastikas had been pinned to the balustrade above the main entrance. It was an odd sensation.

Carcassonne seemed small after two years in Chartres. Which made it even more shameful that the insurgents continued successfully to operate in the narrow streets of the Bastide. There was little excuse for the fact that the Gestapo and the Milice had failed to eradicate all opposition entirely.

‘Canaille,’ he muttered. Vermin.

Laval was driving. He said nothing. Authié wouldn’t expect him to speak. Laval obeyed orders now. He did not question or challenge. The abrupt news they were to return to the south, then Authié’s announcement that they were to schedule their arrival a day earlier than de l’Oradore had suggested, had been met with a lack of curiosity. Two years in the north, being subordinate to the Gestapo and Wehrmacht personnel with whom Authié fraternised, had cured Laval of his tendency to query his superior.

De l’Oradore had ensured that the murder of Erik Bauer and his men in August 1942 had not come to the attention of Nazi High Command in Paris. It had given de l’Oradore a hold over Authié, but since it did not interfere with or limit his ambitions, it was a situation he was prepared to tolerate. In turn, Authié had created a paper trail implicating Laval in the massacre. Should at any stage his deputy step out of line, this evidence would prove Laval had acted on his own initiative. That he had, in fact, been working as a double agent. It was true, of course. A simple conversation with the two German prisoners in Le Vernet had confirmed Laval had been selling information to Bauer. Authié had never had to make the threat explicit.

He smiled. ‘Do you know, I believe I shall enjoy Carcassonne, Laval,’ he said.

Laval didn’t respond.

‘Lieutenant,’ Authié said sharply.

Their eyes locked. ‘Yes, sir,’ Laval said.

The car turned left and drove past the Hôtel Terminus, heading out of town towards the route de Toulouse. The Gestapo had set up their headquarters in a rather ordinary suburban villa, although the majority of its number were garrisoned at the Caserne Laperrine.

Authié had no doubt Schiffner and his men resented his arrival – it was a clear criticism of their inability to suppress the insurgents in Carcassonne – but they were not in a position to object. Schiffner could not fail to be aware of the support Authié had in Chartres and Paris. His recent contributions to the strikes against Resistance and Maquis targets in the south had been widely acknowledged. In Montolieu in May, in Conques and Chalabre. Schiffner would know that Nazi High Command thought highly of Authié.

‘What time did you inform them we would be arriving, Laval?’

‘I said between eight and nine o’clock this evening, sir. I thought it better not to be too specific.’

Authié nodded. ‘How did they react?’

‘They were unhappy, suspected you were trying to catch them out, sir. But they attempted to conceal it.’

‘Good.’

As they drove past the Jardin des Plantes, Authié went over his plans in his mind. The first twenty-four hours would be critical. Tomorrow was Bastille Day. Any kind of celebration was now illegal, which of course meant it was an obvious date for a partisan attack or protest.

He would spend an hour or so with Schiffner, both of them going through the motions of pretending they were equal and willing allies. He needed to know how many men he might have at his disposal. His erstwhile informant, Fournier, had been murdered in the same attack that had killed the leader of the Carcassonnais Milice, Albert Kromer. But there was no reason to assume Fournier’s sister would have moved from the rue du Palais. While he was with Schiffner, he intended to send Laval to find out if the Vidal house was still occupied.

So far as the forgery was concerned, Authié had made a convincing enough case against Sandrine Vidal in his mind. It was now only a matter of finding her and ascertaining the extent to which she was involved. But now there was more.

Authié leant back in his seat. When they had stopped at Milice headquarters in Toulouse to make the telephone call to Schiffner, Authié had seen a report about a women’s network operating in Carcassonne. He had no idea if there was truth in the story, but he remembered the way Marianne Vidal and her friend had closed ranks when he visited the house in the rue du Palais in search of Sandrine Vidal. And he had started to wonder.

Two birds with one stone, a net gradually tightening.

Laval killed the engine. ‘We’re here, sir.’

Authié waited for Laval to open his door, then got out. From the outside, it looked like an ordinary suburban house. Inside – beyond the mundane offices and ‘grey mice’, as they were known, typing and sending telegrams and receiving messages – Authié knew it would be a different matter. Here, regardless of intention, most men and women were persuaded, in the end, to talk.

Authié gave Laval his orders, instructing him to return in an hour, then turned and walked towards the entrance. After the usual security checks, he was taken to a large office at the back of the building and announced. Schiffner, with a fixed smile on his face, came out from behind his desk and offered Authié his hand. He spoke in German.

‘A pleasure to see you again, Major Authié.’

‘Je vous en prie,’ Authié replied.

Schiffner switched to French. He gestured to the two officers in the room with him. ‘You know Inspector Janeke and Inspector Zimmerman?’

Authié nodded at Schiffner’s deputies. Between them, these three men were in charge of pursuing the war against the Resistance in the Aude. In his eyes, therefore, they were responsible for the failure to suppress the insurgency.

‘You catch us somewhat by surprise,’ Schiffner said. ‘Our arrangements were for tomorrow.’

Authié met his eye. ‘We made better time than we had anticipated,’ he said. ‘I hope I have not inconvenienced you.’

Schiffner waved his hand. ‘Not in the slightest, not in the slightest. But the formal dinner to welcome you to Carcassonne is arranged for tomorrow night.’

‘Back to Carcassonne,’ he said lightly. ‘This is my home town.’

‘Of course, I forget.’

‘A dinner was not necessary though it is, of course, most kind.’

‘It is an honour,’ Schiffner said, with a smile that did not reach his eyes.

‘I shall look forward to it,’ Authié said, equally formally.

As second in command only to Chef Eckfelner himself, the seniority belonged with Schiffner. But Authié’s position was without parallel. He was French, yet had powerful supporters. He had authority over the operations of the Milice in Carcassonne, though the chain of command was blurred. It was not clear to whom he answered, Chartres or Paris or even Berlin. As a result, Schiffner was wary. Authié could see the caution in the German’s eyes. He let the silence stretch.

‘Can I offer you something to drink, Herr Authié?’ Schiffner said in the end. ‘Whisky? Brandy?’

‘Thank you, brandy.’

Schiffner gestured to Janeke, who went to a drinks cabinet in the corner of the office and poured two measures of cognac.

‘I confess I am not entirely clear what your instructions might be, Herr Authié.’

Authié allowed himself a slight smile at Schiffner’s unwillingness to use his military rank. It was the second time, so deliberate rather than a slip of the tongue.

‘Tell me, Herr Schiffner, do you consider you are winning the war against the insurgents?’

The Nazi flushed. ‘There is still work to do, but I would say so. Our figures compare favourably with other regions.’

‘How many terrorists have you deported?’

Schiffner glanced at Inspector Janeke as he handed him the brandy. The lieutenant said nothing.

‘I cannot say without checking our records,’ Schiffner said. ‘All the details are in our files.’

‘One hundred, one hundred and fifty, more?’

‘In excess of two hundred, I should say.’

‘The majority of those in June and July,’ Authié continued.

‘Herr Authié, forgive me,’ Schiffner said, trying to mask his impatience. ‘Is there something specific you would like to know? Please, do ask. It will save us both time.’

Authié leant forward and put his untouched drink on the desk. ‘Very well. It seems to me that, with the intelligence provided to you, your attempts to clean the vermin from the Bastide are less successful than they might be. The majority of the insurgents seem to have been left at liberty to join other groups.’

‘The Maquis are not our prime concern in Carcassonne, as you well know,’ Schiffner said stiffly. ‘Having said that, I believe our actions against the guerrilla forces in the countryside are successful in the main.’

Authié sat back in his chair. He pulled his cigarette case from the inside breast pocket of his jacket and offered it to Schiffner, who shook his head. He shrugged, took out a cigarette and tapped it on the silver lid to settle the tobacco, then got out his lighter.

‘Perhaps if you dismiss your officers,’ he said, ‘we could talk more frankly.’

‘I would prefer them to remain.’

Authié snapped the lid shut, killing the flame.

‘In which case,’ he said, pleasantly, ‘I regret we have nothing to say to one another at this stage.’

He stood up.

‘Wait,’ Schiffner said quickly. ‘Very well.’

Authié stared at him, then slowly sat down again. Schiffner could not afford either to alienate Authié – not until he had ascertained the true extent of his authority – or to jeopardise the Gestapo operation in Carcassonne. Both men were aware of it. Schiffner turned to his lieutenants.

‘Warten draußen.’

The door closed behind them.

‘A wise decision,’ Authié said. ‘So, you asked me what specifically I wanted to know.’

Schiffner nodded. ‘I did.’

Authié sat forward in his chair. ‘You have heard of the agent code-named “Sophie”? Or the réseau she is said to command in Carcassonne?’

Schiffner gave a bark of laughter. ‘It is common knowledge that such a network does not exist. It’s a fairy tale, ein Märchen, something out of the brothers Grimm. A unit of women, it is propaganda only.’

‘Do you think so?’ Authié said. ‘Yet most of the heroines of your fairy tales are girls, are they not? There are women who support the insurgents, as you are well aware. Now, more than ever.’

Schiffner waved his hand. ‘Running errands, maybe, but setting explosives, sabotage, destroying power lines, this I do not believe.’ He gave another hollow laugh. ‘What is more, this réseau is everywhere. In the countryside, in Carcassonne itself, on the coast, any attack that cannot be attributed to someone else is laid at their door.’

Authié met his gaze. ‘If you wish to improve your standing, shall we say, then I suggest you listen very carefully. For reasons I do not propose to elaborate, I am interested in “Sophie”. If you are prepared to help me, I will be prepared to share with you intelligence that will enable you to bring into custody the leaders of the R3 network.’

‘Excuse me?’

Ever since the various Resistance networks had been brought together in January 1943 – and France divided into different zones – there had been a game of cat-and-mouse as the Gestapo attempted to hunt down the leaders of the various factions.

‘You need to find “Myriel”, do you not?’ Authié said. ‘His real name is Jean Bringer. He is the leader of the FFI, working with Aimé Ramond – a serving police officer here in Carcassonne – as well as Maurice Sevajols and others.’

‘How do you know this?’ said Schiffner.

Authié held his gaze. ‘If you give me your full support for the next three days, perhaps more, then I will give you all the information you need to move against R3.’ He paused. ‘Since you claim not even to believe in this women’s réseau, it seems a more than fair bargain.’

He watched Schiffner wrestling with the decision. His anger at finding terms being dictated to him was in conflict with his self-interest.

‘Well?’

Finally, the Nazi nodded. ‘I accept your terms.’

Authié gave a sharp nod.

Schiffner frowned. ‘You talk as if you know the identity of this “Sophie”. Is that the case?’

Authié gave a cold smile. ‘A suspicion, only. But one I intend to prove. If I am right, I suspect some kind of action will be planned for tomorrow night. It is widely known, no doubt, that you have a dinner arranged.’

Schiffner flushed. ‘It is impossible to organise such a thing without it becoming common knowledge. The staff alone . . .’

‘You took no special precautions?’

‘Of course we did. There is increased security. All personnel going in and out of the Cité will be searched. Everyone has been issued with special passes for tomorrow night. Of course, if you had given us prior warning, we would have brought arrangements forward.’

Authié gave a cold smile. ‘Where is this dinner to be held?’

‘The Hôtel de le Cité.’

‘Good.’ A slow smile spread across his face. ‘Telephone your men in the Cité and tell them to be alert. To report anything unusual, particularly in the vicinity of the hotel itself. Anything at all.’

Chapter 116

CARCASSONNE

Sandrine waited until it was dark before crossing the Pont Neuf. To her right, the distinctive arches of the Pont Vieux were blockaded at each end by Nazi anti-tank installations. She wore a dark pullover, black canvas trousers over her dress and rubber-soled shoes on her feet. Her hair was tucked up in a black beret.

To her right, she could see the turrets and towers of the medieval Cité, now occupied by the Wehrmacht. The Porte de l’Aude had been closed up and the inhabitants of the Cité, like their ancestors in the summer of 1209, expelled from their own streets. When they were children, she and Marianne had played in the ramparts, climbed the old stone walls, darting in and out of the postern gates that led to the moat and the roads surrounding the citadel. Always a garçon manqué, a tomboy, Sandrine had played the chevalier. Marianne preferred to be the châtelaine.

Sandrine quickly left the main road and ducked down to the path running along the right bank close to Maingaud’s distillery. Walking fast, head down, she passed the night fishermen casting their lines out into the drifting current of the Aude.

There was a bright and cloudless sky, not ideal for this kind of operation. Sandrine remembered sitting in Coustaussa listening to Monsieur Baillard’s stories of taking ‘cargo’ to the Spanish border. How the moon was an enemy. Praying for misty nights, for overcast nights, to conceal them from the French border patrols. Then, she had no idea that she would learn to feel the same.

Raoul was waiting for her in the shadow of the walls below the Lafarge factory. When he smiled, quickly, in the dark, Sandrine let her fingers touch his, briefly. He too was dressed in black, with a dark handkerchief around his neck. He was carrying a holdall over his left shoulder.

‘You have everything?’ she whispered, even though she’d packed the bag herself.

‘Yes.’

Her despair of a few hours ago utterly forgotten, Sandrine now felt calm and focused on the job in hand. They made their way down rue Barbacane, past the église Saint-Gimer and a handful of small shops, an old-fashioned mercerie with a dwindled display of thread and buttons, and the boulangerie, shuttered for the night. In the days of austerity in the twenties and thirties, the quartier had fallen on hard times. It became a rough neighbourhood. Before the war it was home to refugees from Spain and North Africa, gypsies from Romania and Hungary, and impoverished Carcassonnais. The police regularly raided the area, looking for communists and Spanish émigrés, anyone without papers or whose name was on a list. Now, many of the houses were officially unoccupied, though dark eyes looked out through the cracks in the shutters. Even the Wehrmacht patrols were reluctant to come here.

Raoul turned left into a narrow dead-end road, rue Petite Côte de la Cité. The houses, two and three storeys high, showed the signs of many families crammed in together. Boarded windows and cracked wooden shutters, crumbling brickwork and peeling paint. The street sloped steeply, leading to a flight of worn stone steps with high flint walls on either side. It led up to the Cité through densely cultivated market gardens. Branches of fig trees, bare of fruit, hung low over the steps and pinpricks of green light from glow-worms illuminated the dark cracks between the stones.

Raoul took the steps two at a time, barely pausing for breath. Sandrine kept pace. Up, up they climbed, following the winding steps round, until suddenly they were out in the open space below the Porte d’Aude, the western entrance into the Cité. Straight ahead were the sheer western walls of the Château Comtal, the Tour Pinte, like a finger pointing to heaven.

For a fleeting instant, Monsieur Baillard came into her mind. Remembering his voice, rich with age and knowledge, telling of how the Tour Pinte bowed down to Charlemagne on Dame Carcas’ orders. The last time, or so he told her, that the powers of the Codex had been called upon. Sandrine shook her head, surprised that she should think such a thing at such a moment. She had no time for fairy tales now. But even so, as she cleared the last of the steps, she couldn’t help casting her eyes, briefly, to the dark sky.

Was Monsieur Baillard up there? Looking down on their endeavours, keeping them safe? Sandrine couldn’t believe in such superstition, in a God that let such things happen, but sometimes she envied Marieta’s simple faith. And she wondered why Monsieur Baillard was so vivid in her memory tonight.

‘Which way?’ Raoul whispered.

Her reflections scattered. ‘Right. Follow the path all the way along, then come back at the Tour du Grand Burlas from the gardens to the south.’

Raoul nodded.

‘Keep as low as you can.’

Sandrine was aware of the patrols on the walls, the great white beams of the searchlights as they swept over the grass and slopes. There was a patch of exposed land between the top of the stone steps and the market gardens. Even today, the south-western corner of the Cité was still rural. Orchards and wooded gardens, pens that once held rabbits and chickens. There was little meat to be had now, except in the dining room of the Hôtel de la Cité or the garrison mess in the Hôtel Terminus, where a portrait of Adolf Hitler looked down from the fireplace in the salle à manger where once the jazz band played.

Raoul covered the distance first, clutching the bag to his chest like a child held close. Waiting for the sign it was safe to follow, Sandrine looked back out over the Bastide. In her mind’s eye she saw the glittering outline of the town in the days before the war, the bars and restaurants and houses all lit up, garlanded about like a string of pearls.

Then, through the silence, the low chug-chug-chug call of an owl. Sandrine smiled, picturing Raoul with his hands cupped round his mouth, breathing the sounds into the darkness, and immediately she set out to join him.

Together they followed the line of the outer ring of fortifications. Here, in the old days, Marieta had told her, the Spanish textile workers laid out their swathes of cloth on the grass to dry, like the huge sails of seafaring boats. The distinctive outline of the Tour du Grand Burlas loomed into view, lit suddenly a ghostly white as the cloud cleared the face of the moon.

This was the most dangerous part of the operation. The Cité was highly guarded, patrolled day and night, but there was a moment at midnight when the watch swapped over. There had been no trouble in this part of Carcassonne for weeks, and after several days of observation, Suzanne had reported that the four Wehrmacht soldiers tended to share a cigarette and pass a few minutes together before the new patrol relieved the old. That was their chance to get in through the postern gate and leave the device in the store at the base of the tower, then get away before the lights were manned once more.

Raoul lowered his bag to the ground, reached inside for a pair of pliers.

‘Can you get to work on that?’ he said, indicating the padlock on the wooden door of the tower.

She gave a mock salute.

‘Very funny,’ he said drily, but his voice cracked with tension.

‘It’ll be all right,’ she said.

‘Let’s just get on with it and get away as soon as we can.’

Sandrine manoeuvred the pliers backwards and forwards, twisting the chain until the metal gave and the padlock fell to the ground.

‘Surely they’ll search everywhere before Authié arrives?’ Raoul whispered.

‘Yes, but I’m gambling on them concentrating their efforts close to the hotel. They’ll expect something when he arrives and leaves. If they do find it, then we’ll have to think of something else. Try again.’

Dread suddenly took hold of her, the thought of success and the thought of failure both equally repellent.

‘Are you all right?’

Sandrine pulled herself together. This was how it had to be. Men like Authié forced them to live like this. There was no room for sentiment.

‘Fine,’ she said quickly. ‘Do you have the torch?’

Raoul held the weak beam steady. Sandrine took out the primer and the roll of coarse twine rolled in gunpowder. Next, the detonating cord, treated with a fabric waterproof covering, though it was hardly necessary. It had been dry for weeks. Filled with PETN, it would detonate at about six thousand metres per second. Lastly she took a thin copper tube from the bag, about six centimetres long. One of the ends was open.

‘I haven’t seen one like this before,’ Raoul whispered.

‘It’s a non-electric blasting cap,’ she explained. ‘No idea how Suzanne got hold of it. It goes in the end, here. Then all I have to do is crimp it into place to ensure the main charge blows.’

With deft fingers, Sandrine finished what had to be done. Then she checked and double-checked everything was in place, and stood up.

‘C’est fait.’ All done.

Raoul turned off the torch. Sandrine carefully carried the device into the tower. When she came out, Raoul pulled the door to and reattached the padlock so that it wouldn’t be obvious, from a distance at least, that anyone had been in there.

Another cloud passed across the moon. Raoul suddenly put his hand around Sandrine’s waist and pulled her to him. He kissed her hard on the mouth, seconds before the silver beam of the searchlight lit the grass around the base of the tower.

‘Let me come back and finish it,’ he said, releasing her. ‘You’ve done enough.’

Sandrine shook her head and touched his cheek with her hand. ‘Come on,’ she said.

The soldier on duty in the Tour Grand Canissou was flicking through an American magazine, pin-up girls in bathing suits, pretty in polka dots and bright lipstick. He noticed nothing. Everyone was on duty tomorrow, extra security, but tonight was like any other night. They’d been told to keep an eye out for any unusual activity, but it was as quiet as the grave. He lit a cigarette and looked across at the other towers, thinking about his girl in Michelstadt, wondering how she’d look in a swimming suit like Jinx Falkenburg. He glanced at his wristwatch, seeing that he still had a full four hours before his shift ended.

But the zealous guard in the Tour de Inquisition was looking north out of the ramparts and thought he saw a figure in the shadows below the outer walls, just below the Tour de la Justice. He watched it disappear into the long grasses below the stone barbican that led down towards église Saint-Gimer in the quartier du Barbacane. When the shape was out of sight, he radioed his commander.

‘One person sighted,’ he said down the uneven line. ‘Western sector of La Cité, below the Château Comtal.’

‘Man, woman?’

‘I couldn’t tell.’

‘Very well,’ his commander replied. ‘The order is to investigate anything unusual and report back. If you find something, don’t disturb it. Leave everything in place. We don’t want them to know they’ve been seen.’

To the south-west of the Cité, Raoul and Sandrine followed the narrow footpath leading down to the Domaine de Fontgrande.

‘My uncle worked those vines,’ he said softly. ‘Autumn after autumn, carrying a high wicker basket on his back filled with purple grapes, white grapes. He had a stubby, thick-bladed knife for cutting the vines. Bruno and I loved it, argued all the time about whose turn it was to use it.’ He wriggled his fingers. ‘I still remember that tingling atmosphere waiting for the perfect moment for the vendanges, everyone watching the sky for the harvest to begin, chasing the clouds.’ He paused. ‘Even his dog used to sit and watch the sky.’

Sandrine was struck by the contrast between what they were doing and this unchanging rhythm of the South. Generations of families of the Aude valley living out their lives in the same steady way. Having a place in the world, being part of something bigger than themselves.

This, in the end, was what they were fighting for. To not have this way of life stolen from them. She felt suddenly weak with nostalgia. If everything went according to plan, when she left Carcassonne tomorrow she might never be able to return. Certainly not until the war was over. Whatever the outcome.

As she thought about all the places she would miss, she felt her heart coming unstitched a little, like tiny tears in a piece of cloth. All the lost opportunities, the small dreams that hadn’t had time to come true. In the darkness, she clutched for Raoul’s hand. Found it.

He squeezed, then she let go and they continued to thread their way down the narrow path in the silent darkness. Down past the Moulin du Roi and on to the island that lay between the Aude and one of its smaller tributaries. There was no bridge, but the river was low below the weir and provided they waited until the moon was obscured, it was a good place to cross back to the Bastide. It was common practice not to retrace one’s steps. It cut down the chance, in the event that someone reported them to the authorities, of them being able to give an accurate description.

Raoul crossed first. Sandrine crouched in the reeds and the shelter of the trees that went right down to the water’s edge, alert all the time to any sound, praying not to hear anything. No shouted orders, no report of a gun ringing out, nothing to indicate they’d been spotted. She noticed they weren’t far from where she and Raoul had first met. The place where she had pulled Antoine Déjean from the water and everything had been set in motion. For the third time that night, her thoughts went to Monsieur Baillard. Had he genuinely believed in a ghost army that would march to save the Midi? She supposed that now she would never know.

‘And the number was ten thousand times ten thousand.’

For the first time in many months, Antoine’s words came echoing back into her head, ringing as clear as a bell. And, for a moment, Sandrine thought she heard something, like she had before. A sense of voices calling out to her, somehow just beyond the limits of her hearing, but there all the same in the shimmering silence.

‘A sea of glass . . .’

Then she realised that what she was hearing was the absence of sound. No longer the lap, the ripple, of water, the noise of the river folding in and over upon itself as Raoul made his way across. She focused her eyes into the darkness, looked for his outline on the far bank.

He was safely across. Her turn now. Carefully, her muscles vibrating with anticipation, Sandrine stepped out into the water. The further she went into the current, the faster the water swirled about her legs, harder and fiercer against her calves, her knees, the backs of her thighs. Deeper, colder, and she struggled not to be knocked off her feet, but she was stronger now, and easily made it to the other side.

Raoul held out his hand and helped her up on to the bank. Together, they traced their way through the woods below the cimetière Saint-Michel, where they removed their night clothes. Sandrine took off her slacks, untucked her dress and tried to smooth out the creases, then from Raoul’s bag took her cherry-red shoes. Raoul changed his trousers, took off his pullover and put on a jacket. His felt hat was squashed, but Sandrine pushed it back into shape.

‘There,’ she whispered, as he shoved their damp clothes into the bag and concealed it in the crooked hollow beneath the gnarled roots of a tree. ‘So very smart.’

The curfew was still in place. It was observed rigorously in areas which were considered to be important or sensitive – in Place Carnot near the Milice or Waffen-SS offices, anywhere in the vicinity of any of the German military headquarters – but in quiet residential streets, mostly the patrols allowed the Carcassonnais to go about their business.

‘You look beautiful,’ Raoul whispered.

Sandrine looked at him in surprise. He wasn’t given to paying compliments, even to noticing. Sometimes she felt guilty, silly, for minding about something so unimportant.

‘Come on,’ he said, taking her hand.

‘Where are we going?’

‘You’ll see.’

He led her towards the café at Païchérou. It was dark inside, with all the chairs tilted forward against the spindly white metal tables. The gates were shut, but they were not locked. He pushed them open a fraction, then pulled her inside.

‘What are you doing?’ she hissed. ‘We don’t want to push our luck.’

‘There’s no one here,’ he said, turning her round to face him and sweeping her into his arms.

‘Someone will see us!’

He paid no attention. ‘Didn’t you tell me your father promised to take you dancing at Païchérou on your twenty-first birthday?’

‘Well, yes,’ she said.

‘In his place, I feel it’s my duty to step in. A little ahead of time, I grant you. But it’s our anniversary, after all.’

She made a half-hearted effort to pull away. ‘Our anniversary?’

‘It’s the thirteenth of July, ma belle. Our two-year anniversary’s today.’

She became still in his arms. ‘I suppose it is,’ she said, a smile touching her lips. ‘Of course, you’re right. It is.’

‘And here we are by the same river. Except it’s not the Aude any more, but the river Seine.’

‘It is?’

‘Why not?’ he said eagerly, bringing the dream to life. ‘This is Paris. Can’t you hear the band? The trumpet, the accordion player with his fingers skating over the buttons? Can’t you hear Piaf? And here we are, dancing in a down-and-out nightclub on the Left Bank, me in my best suit, you – well, beautiful as always, for our second anniversary, with so many more to come. Listen to the band playing a song for us.’

Raoul began to sing under his breath in the darkness. His voice wasn’t strong, but he could hold a tune and the song came from the heart.

‘J’ai dansé avec l’amour, j’ai fait des tours et des tours . . .’

Sandrine followed his lead, moving gently in his arms, hearing in her mind the squashed blue notes of the saxophone, the rattle of champagne glasses and the rustle of silk dresses and beads.

‘. . . elle et moi, que c’était bon, l’amour avait dans ses yeux tant d’amour, tant d’amour.’

For a moment, the memory of the notes hung in the air. Then, he stepped back and pretended to clap.

‘And a round of applause, mesdames et messieurs. Another round of applause for la Môme Piaf and the band.’

For a moment they stood still, safe in their imaginations. The clouds cleared from the face of the moon and they were lit, uniquely, by silver light filtering through the canopy of the lime trees. Sandrine put her hand on the back of Raoul’s neck and drew his face close to hers, kissed him on the lips, then stepped back.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered, appalled to find her eyes filling with tears.

Sensing the shift in her mood, Raoul twirled her round. ‘It was my pleasure, Mademoiselle Vidal.’ He nodded. ‘Same time, same place next week, perhaps?’

Sandrine could not answer.

Then his mood changed too. Common sense pushed romance and dreaming back to the shadows again. Carcassonne once more, not the intoxicating perfume of champagne and the melody of Paris.

‘We should go,’ she said in her everyday voice. Not a voice hoarse with singing or the smoke of an imagined nightclub. She turned towards the gate that they had left ajar.

‘Sandrine,’ he said quickly, catching at her hand. ‘I love you. You know that?’

She stopped. ‘I know.’

‘And when this is over, all of this, I’ll take you dancing every weekend. Every night if you want to.’

Sandrine smiled. ‘Would my feet even stand it?’ she whispered.

‘Better times round the corner,’ he said. ‘Like in all those ghastly English songs they’re always playing.’

They stood together for a last moment, cheek to cheek, then Sandrine stepped back.

‘We must go,’ she said quietly. ‘We’ve been here too long.’

Raoul gripped her hand even more tightly. ‘I mean it, when it’s over, I’m going to show you such a time . . .’

‘We’ll be all right,’ she said, her voice suddenly fierce. ‘We’ll get through, if we can just hold out for a little bit longer. We’ll be fine, you and me. All of us.’

‘Yes?’

She heard the doubt in his voice and her heart cracked a little.

‘Yes,’ she said firmly. ‘Yes. Now, come on. You can walk me home, Monsieur Pelletier. And if you’re good, I might even let you come in for a cup of cocoa!’

‘Cocoa!’ he laughed. ‘Now that’s too English for me! In any case, I should go to the bar and see if Bonnet and Yvette are there. Just in case she’s heard anything.’

The smile faded from Sandrine’s face. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘That’s sensible. We should make sure nothing’s changed.’

Together, with thoughts of the day ahead in their minds, they walked quietly, quickly through the sleeping streets of Carcassonne. The unreliable moon lighting their way home.

Codex XX

GAUL

TARASCO

JULY AD 344

Arinius stood with his brother-in-law, watching another sunrise over the Vallée des Trois Loups. Each day the soldiers did not come was a reprieve, though he knew the waiting was making the others careless. They were starting to take the threat less seriously.

The Tarascae had taken it in turns to keep watch through the short summer nights. Only a few hours of darkness between dusk and dawn. Each was armed. Those who had fought, either in the service of the Roman army, or to defend their land, held swords or javelins, slings. Many were armed with clubs, knives, their weapons the spoils of war, skirmishes and ambushes, rather than campaigns or battles. Most of the villagers were guerrilla fighters, using the woods and the forests, untrained in the art of fighting but with a raw belligerence suited well to these lawless border lands.

Arinius had a heavy rectangular shield. His old hunting knife was in his right hand, though he prayed he would not be called upon to use it. He was prepared to fight to the death to protect his friends, their community, but he did not wish to take the life of another.

He knew he was being naïve – and that Lupa, had she been there, would have laughed at his moral distinction. She, more than him, was able to reconcile God’s commandments with the cruelties of the world in which they lived. For him, though, the gentleness of the gospels, the words of John and Luke sang more truly. His God was a God of light and redemption, not of vengeance and judgement.

He did not wish to kill another human being. Only God, he believed, had that right. And he had seen too much death in his youth, saw how it corrupted and despoiled all that was best in human nature, left a scar on the soul.

‘A false alarm, do you think, peyre?’ one of the young men asked him.

He had tried so many times to make them address him by his name, feeling dishonest and humbled to be singled out and ranked above his station. And ‘peyre’ was a strange, local word, a hybrid, neither Latin nor any other language Arinius had come across. But they insisted and he had given up trying to stop them.

‘Could it be a false alarm?’

Arinius wanted to give them hope. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I do not think so.’

He could feel the twist and shift of evil in the air, a malignancy like a physical presence stalking them, coming closer.

‘No, they are coming,’ he said. ‘Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow, but they are close at hand. Soon they will be here.’ He caught his breath. ‘May God deliver us.’

Chapter 117

CARCASSONNE

JULY 1944

‘But with respect, sir,’ Laval said, ‘why not arrest them now? Marianne and Sandrine Vidal still live there. Another woman is always there, tall with cropped hair.’

‘What did Fournier’s sister actually tell you?’ Authié demanded.

‘That they are discreet, careful to observe the blackout. Sometimes they are out late. Past the curfew.’

Authié had drunk more than he’d intended with Schiffner, then spent the rest of the night going through the surveillance files. It was now five o’clock and he had a headache, but he wasn’t ready to call it a night. Laval had spent the past two hours gathering information about interrogations and arrests – firstly, in the past week, then, the past fortnight – going backwards and forwards between the Commissariat and the Feldgendarmerie. Much of it was classified and, although Laval had requested the records, they would not be made available until the morning. But Authié had read enough to have a clear picture of the state of affairs in Carcassonne.

There was a great deal of circumstantial evidence, though no proof, that all three women were involved in partisan activity. Suzanne Peyre, whom Authié remembered, had been taken in on Monday, but released without charge. Authié intended to institute several such raids today. It didn’t matter who they arrested or why, only that the population should be aware that there was a new regime in place.

‘What about Pelletier? Did she mention seeing him at all?’

‘Madame Fournier said she hadn’t seen a man answering Pelletier’s description,’ Laval admitted. ‘It doesn’t mean he’s not there.’

‘Have you tried the Quai Riquet?’

‘Not yet, sir.’

‘Well do it,’ he snapped. He rubbed his hand across his forehead. The headache was getting worse.

‘Sir,’ Laval said cautiously, ‘I think we should act now. Raid the house. Arrest everyone there.’

Authié opened his eyes and stared at his lieutenant. For a moment, he wondered if he was right. If it would be better to strike while everyone was asleep. It was only instinct telling him that Sandrine Vidal had anything to do with the device the guards had discovered in the Tour de la Justice – it could have been put there by any partisan group – but since reading the police reports in Toulouse, he had been unable to shake the idea that Sandrine Vidal and ‘Sophie’ were the same person. And nothing he had read in the surveillance files in the past few hours had caused him to change his mind. If he was right, then even more reason to bide his time.

De l’Oradore had ordered him to find and interrogate Audric Baillard. Sandrine Vidal might be his best chance of finding the historian.

‘Two birds with one stone,’ he repeated to himself.

Authié met Laval’s gaze, his moment of indecision over. ‘No, we are going to wait. Wait to see what happens in the Cité tonight. See if they – anyone – act. Otherwise, we shall be waiting for them tomorrow.’

He could see from his expression that Laval thought he was wrong.

‘But surely . . .’

‘I don’t want to run the risk of the terrorists calling off their attempt in the Cité.’

‘Why would they?’ asked Laval.

‘Rumours will be spreading that something is planned. Both our side and theirs will be aware of the dinner. I want to give the insurgents something else to think about. Draw their attention to the Bastide and away from the Cité.’

‘Very good, sir,’ Laval said, though it was clear he didn’t understand what Authié was trying to do.

Authié waved his hand. ‘Get some sleep, Laval. Check on Madame Pelletier first thing, go back to the Vidal house, then report back. I have set in train a series of raids for tomorrow afternoon. I want the insurgents to believe that those arrests are our main priority.’

Laval saluted, then walked quickly across the room and out into the corridor. The sound of the door slamming ricocheted through Authié’s head. He opened his desk drawer and hunted around for an aspirin. It was his own desk, and he had already hung his maps back on the wall. Schiffner had provided space for him in the Feldgendarmerie, rather than Gestapo premises. It was an odd sensation to be back in the same white building, one floor higher up. As if nothing had changed.

He closed the drawer. There were no aspirin.

Raoul came out of the club and stood on the street. The light was just beginning to turn from a deep blue to the pale white of early morning. His euphoria at their successful operation last night, in setting the bomb and getting away unobserved, had drained away. Now he was left with a vague, anxious feeling in his stomach. He pushed his hands deep into his pockets, breathing in the warm night air. He didn’t know what time it was, but it felt nearer to morning than to night.

He wished he hadn’t drunk so much. But Robert had kept filling his glass while they waited for Yvette to arrive. Raoul needed to think but his brain was sluggish. All he wanted was to get back to Sandrine and sleep. Sleep and never wake up. He was too tired to think. But something Yvette had said had set off a ripple of alarm in his head. What was it? Why couldn’t he think straight?

He headed towards the Canal du Midi, down the shabby side street and on to the towpath. For an instant, he looked across the still water towards the Quai Riquet to see if there was a light burning in his mother’s window. He had visited once or twice, but his presence so frightened her – she seemed to think he was a ghost – that he’d given up. Kinder to stay away, though he felt shabby about it.

The window was dark.

He made himself run through yet again what Yvette had said. A telephone call had been received at Gestapo headquarters as she came on shift. Plans for the dinner tomorrow night. Schiffner and his deputies were angry. Someone was coming from Toulouse, but arrived earlier than expected. She hadn’t been able to work out if the visitor was German or French, but arrangements were disrupted because of it.

Then what?

Raoul felt his chest tighten. Something was eating away at him, something that struck a wrong note. He kicked a stone into the water. It fell into the canal with a dead splash. He hesitated, a glimmer of a thought piercing his consciousness, but he couldn’t get hold of it.

He tried to imagine the scene. The visitor arrives and goes into Schiffner’s office. Yvette hears raised voices, but then the telephone rings again and the mood changes. She hears laughing and a trail of cigar smoke comes from under the door. The door opens and the visitor’s talking about his girlfriend, or his wife, Yvette can’t tell. Pretty name, though. All disjointed, fragments overheard as the door closes again.

Raoul frowned. Yvette said so much, it was hard to work out what mattered and what didn’t. He stopped, took his cigarette packet from his pocket and saw he was down to his last two.

Laughing in Schiffner’s office, talking about tomorrow. No one much about. Raoul stopped dead, a trickle of realisation finally penetrating his sleep-starved mind. Was that all that was niggling at him? That there should have been more going on? That the Gestapo should be on full alert for Authié’s arrival? Why wasn’t Schiffner in the Cité himself, ensuring the finishing touches were in place? It was an obvious target for an assassination attempt.

Raoul struck a match. Was it possible the visitor from Toulouse was actually Authié? That he had arrived a day early? And that second telephone call, when, as Yvette put it, the mood changed? From the garrison in the Cité? No reason to think so, but yet, now the thought was in his mind, Raoul couldn’t shake it. Because if the bomb had been found, then of course Schiffner didn’t need to be in the Cité. He already knew what was planned. He just had to sit tight and wait for them to put their plan into action. Schiffner and Authié, laughing and smoking and drinking. Sociable, she’d said.

Finally, he realised. Remembered the one word that had stuck like a splinter under his skin and had been festering there all this time. Yvette’s cheerful voice in his head, rattling on and on.

‘Such a pretty name. If I’d had a daughter, I’d have called her that. Too late now, I suppose.’

‘Sophie,’ said Raoul.

Yvette had said the visitor’s girlfriend was called Sophie. Except he wasn’t talking about his girlfriend.

Raoul began to run, away from the Quai Riquet, across the boulevard Antoine Marty, doubling back towards the rue du Palais just as the birds began to sing.

Chapter 118

Sandrine heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. She had dozed on and off since she’d got back, running over the events of the night in her mind, but was too full of adrenalin to go to sleep properly. She hated the fact that Raoul hadn’t stayed, though she knew it was the right thing to make contact with Robert to see if Yvette had heard anything more. It felt as if they had pushed their luck far enough, and she wished he wasn’t out on the streets as the day was dawning.

‘Sandrine?’ he called.

A rainbow of scattered light from the landing window slipped into the room with him. Sandrine felt relief flood through her. He was back, safe. Now he would come to bed and lie beside her. Kiss her. And, for a moment, at least, there would be nothing else.

‘Sandrine, wake up.’

She heard the urgency in his voice and sat up, instantly wide awake.

‘Raoul? What is it?’

‘I think he’s already here,’ he said, the words tumbling out.

‘He? Who, Authié?’

‘At Gestapo headquarters with Schiffner. Yvette said there was a visitor from Toulouse.’

‘Toulouse? Raoul, slow down. Start again.’

Raoul forced himself to draw breath. ‘Yes.’ He sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Sorry. Yvette didn’t come in until four. She said a visitor arrived unexpectedly. At first it was difficult, but then there was a telephone call and the atmosphere changed. The visitor was talking about his girlfriend, Yvette said, but I think she misunderstood.’ He hesitated. ‘She heard him say the word “Sophie”.’

Sandrine froze. ‘They were talking about me?’

‘I think so. She also heard them talking about the Cité. She assumed it was to do with the dinner tonight, but again . . .’

Sandrine swung her legs out of bed and started to get dressed. Raoul watched her for a moment, then stood up too.

‘Is there any proof it was Authié?’ she asked, stepping into her slip and dress, her fingers hurrying with the buttons. ‘From what she said, I mean?’

‘No, but it’s logical to assume it was.’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘You didn’t notice anything after I left you here last night?’

‘No, I did the usual checks before coming in. Madame Fournier was in her position at the window, as always, but there was no one watching the house so far as I could see.’

‘You’ve not heard anything from Marianne and Suzanne? You don’t know if they arrived in Coustaussa all right?’

‘No, but I told them not to call.’

Sandrine laced her shoes, then they both went quickly out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

‘If you’re right – if Yvette has passed on what she heard accurately – are you saying you think Authié’s come back because of “Citadel”? That his presence is nothing to do with the Codex?’

‘I don’t know. There’s no reason to think anything’s changed on that front. Monsieur Baillard is . . . well, we don’t know where he is. We’ve both kept our ears to the ground and heard nothing about the Codex.’ He sighed. ‘In any case, I’m not sure it even matters. Either way, he’s searching for you. It makes no difference why. The end result is the same.’

‘How would he know I’m “Sophie”?’ she said. ‘We’re jumping to conclusions based on a conversation overheard by Yvette. She could have got the wrong end of things entirely.’

‘True.’

Sandrine stopped at the bottom of the stairs, her thoughts racing ahead of themselves. ‘There’s no reason to think Authié knows about Coustaussa,’ she said slowly. ‘No one’s ever come looking for me there.’

Raoul frowned. ‘Are you sure? It must have been common knowledge you used to go out of town for the summer. Madame Fournier must have known.’

‘Yes, but my father never liked Monsieur Fournier, or trusted him. He was always courteous, of course, but careful about what he said. Even before the war.’

They walked down the corridor to the kitchen.

‘How many people know the house is called citadelle?’ Raoul asked.

‘Not many, actually. The name was a joke of my father’s, a bit of fun. He put up the sign, made it himself during the last summer we were there all together.’ She broke off, remembering her father’s face smiling with pride at his handiwork. ‘It only lasted for about two weeks. Papa wasn’t awfully practical and the sign wasn’t strong. It came down in the first storm.’

‘So it’s not officially registered under that name?’

Sandrine shook her head. ‘No, and what’s more, it’s actually registered in my mother’s maiden name. Saint-Loup.’ She saw the look of surprise on Raoul’s face. ‘It’s a huge family, cousins all over the place. It’s a very commonplace name.’

‘The first time I met her, Eloise Breillac told me you were distantly related. I’d forgotten until now.’

Sandrine smiled. ‘It was my mother’s family house, not his. Papa always meant to get the deeds changed into his name after she died, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.’ She paused. ‘Authié would have to dig deep into the records to find the connection. At least, that’s what I hope.’

Raoul was frowning. ‘But everyone knows Marieta is there, and her connection with you and Marianne. It only takes a neighbour here, or in Coustaussa, to say something in front of the wrong person. It’s hardly a secret.’

‘I know that,’ Sandrine said quietly. ‘But there’s nothing we can do about it.’

‘If Authié’s determined to find you, he will.’

‘I know that too.’ She looked at him, his eyes wild with worry and lack of sleep. ‘Let’s think it through. Not rush into anything.’

Sandrine filled the kettle with water and put it on the stove to boil. She put a spoonful of tea into the china pot, then took two cups from the dresser and set them ready on the side with the remains of the honey.

‘I don’t think we can risk going through with the attack on Authié,’ Raoul said. ‘Even if it wasn’t him with Schiffner last night, he’ll arrive today. From what Yvette said, they’ve found the device. If that is the case, Authié won’t go anywhere near the Cité tonight. They’ll be waiting for us.’

Sandrine poured the hot water on to the leaves.

‘They’ll flood the Cité with men,’ he continued. ‘Milice, Gestapo, the Wehrmacht troops garrisoned there as back-up.’

She stirred the pot, then got the strainer and poured the tea into the cups. A half-spoonful of honey each for flavour. Then she joined him at the table.

‘I agree,’ she said.

Raoul stared. ‘You do?’

‘I agree that they might very well have found the device, and plan to simply lie in wait for us to return to detonate it.’ She took a deep breath, knowing that Raoul wasn’t going to like what she was about to say. ‘But I’ll still have to go back tonight.’

‘Why?’ he demanded.

‘It’s dangerous, Raoul. We can’t just leave the device there. Even if the Gestapo are watching the tower every minute of the day, who’s to say someone won’t find it – a child – and set it off by accident?’

Raoul threw his hands in the air. ‘You can’t seriously be considering going back to disable it? If I’m right and they have found it – and put guards in the tower itself – you’ll be caught.’

‘Innocent people could be killed,’ she said firmly. ‘We can’t leave it.’

‘If they’ve found it, you’ll never get into the Cité and out again without being seen. It’s impossible.’

‘Difficult, not impossible,’ she said.

‘Almost impossible then,’ he said sharply.

‘Look, they aren’t aware that we know they have – might have – discovered the bomb is there.’

‘You’ll be caught,’ he said again.

‘I don’t think so,’ Sandrine continued. ‘They will be expecting us to act at the moment Authié’s scheduled to arrive in the lices. Yes? When they see we’re not coming, they’ll either remove the device themselves or, more likely, put out that he will be there on another occasion, trying to encourage us to make a move the following day.’

‘Or, more likely,’ Raoul said, ‘they will simply sit it out. Wait for you for as long as it takes. Then arrest you,’ Raoul said.

Sandrine raised her hands, then let them drop. ‘I know it’s a risk, but I can’t see any other option.’

‘The logical option is to leave it. Hope it doesn’t get accidentally detonated. That’s the only sensible thing to do.’

‘I’m not prepared to do that,’ Sandrine said. ‘If we kill innocent people, then we’re just as bad. We sink to their level.’

Raoul paused. ‘OK, if you insist. I’ll go.’

Sandrine smiled. ‘You can’t possibly try to get into the Cité. You’ll be stopped straight away. They’re less suspicious of women.’

‘Not if they’re looking for “Sophie”,’ he said.

Sandrine didn’t answer. She knew he was right. For a moment, they both fell silent.

‘If you’re determined to go through with this,’ Raoul said eventually, ‘isn’t there someone who could go in your place? Authié will recognise you.’

Sandrine sighed. ‘We haven’t the time to find anyone and besides, I know the device, how it works. It’s got to be me.’

There was a knock at the back door. Sandrine glanced at the clock – it was just shy of six o’clock, very early for anyone to be calling. She stood up, immediately on her guard, as Raoul slipped behind the door to the cellar, out of sight. She heard the click as he released the safety catch on his revolver.

‘Who is it?’ Sandrine said.

‘Me,’ Lucie whispered through the wire mesh of the fly screen. ‘I’m on my own.’

Sandrine let out a long breath. Raoul stepped from his hiding place, putting his gun back in his pocket.

She put her hand to his cheek. ‘Before I let her in, are we agreed?’

‘I don’t like it.’

Sandrine nodded. ‘Neither do I,’ she said softly.

‘Authié has this address. He could be here at any moment.’

‘We’ll see the plan through tonight, then we’ll leave, I promise. Go to Coustaussa. There’s nothing more to worry about than there was before, it’s just going to take longer to get to Authié than we’d hoped.’

‘Sandrine,’ Lucie said, a little louder.

‘Ask Lucie to go with you,’ Raoul said suddenly. ‘You can’t go alone. Take her.’

Sandrine was about to say no, but then stopped. She could see the sense in his suggestion.

‘Actually, that’s not a bad idea.’

‘Authié won’t recognise her, she’s changed so much. And she’s not known to the Milice or the Gestapo, is she?’

‘No.’

‘Sandrine!’ Lucie repeated. ‘Let me in.’

‘But I won’t pressure her,’ Sandrine said, turning the key, ‘not if she doesn’t want to help. She’s got Jean-Jacques to think of.’

She opened the door. ‘You took your time,’ Lucie said.

There was a pause as she looked at Sandrine, then at Raoul. The colour slipped from her face.

‘What’s going on?’

‘We need your help,’ Sandrine said.

Chapter 119

‘Are you sure?’ Sandrine said for the third time.

Lucie tapped the cigarette Raoul had given her on the side of the glass ashtray. She was pale and her eyes kept darting to and fro.

‘I’ve said so, haven’t I?’

‘I know, but I want you to be clear about what we’re asking of you. It will be dangerous.’

‘It’s dangerous, I understand. I get it.’

Sandrine exchanged a glance with Raoul, who shrugged.

‘No, I mean it, Lucie,’ Sandrine persisted. ‘This isn’t simply delivering a message or smuggling a little paper from one place to another.’

‘The consequences are the same, aren’t they?’ Lucie said. ‘I’d have been in trouble if we’d been stopped on Monday morning on our way to the Café des Deux Gares.’

‘Yes, but . . .’

Lucie shrugged. ‘Well then.’

Sandrine frowned. ‘But we’ve always agreed I’d say you didn’t know anything about it if we were stopped and searched.’

‘No one would have believed that for a moment,’ she said wryly. ‘You know as well as I do, I’d have been for it. Same as you, kid.’

Sandrine stared at her.

‘Sandrine,’ Raoul said gently, ‘if Lucie says she’s willing to help, then it’s her decision.’

Sandrine shook her head. She understood why Raoul wanted Lucie to go with her – it was the only thing he felt he could do to keep her safe – but it felt wrong. She was still not convinced Lucie was aware of what she was agreeing to.

‘Maybe it’s best if I go alone,’ she started to say.

‘No,’ Raoul said, his voice loud in the quiet of the early morning.

Lucie ground the stub out in the ashtray. ‘You want me to help create a diversion,’ she said.

‘Well, yes,’ Sandrine said carefully. ‘But if I’m caught, Lucie, and they realise you were helping me, then it will go badly for us both. Do you see?’

‘So it’s the same story,’ Lucie said. ‘I’ll say I didn’t know anything about it.’

‘They won’t believe you.’

‘I’ll persuade them,’ Lucie said firmly. ‘Look, I understand.’

‘What about Jean-Jacques?’

‘Tonsils,’ she said. ‘That’s what I came to tell you. I thought he was teething, but his temperature kept going up and up. Dr Giraud diagnosed it straight away.’

‘Well then, you can’t possibly leave him,’ Sandrine said in a rush. ‘In fact, shouldn’t you be with him now?’

‘Dr Giraud’s taken him into the Clinique du Bastion. He’s promised to operate as soon as he can, though it probably won’t be until tomorrow morning.’ The light faded from her face, revealing how worried she really was. ‘It’s too risky to smuggle me in too – and if Authié is back, I can’t risk my name being on any list – so, well, I had to leave him with Jeanne.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I’ll go out of my mind if I have to sit around doing nothing.’

Now Sandrine was even more worried about Lucie’s involvement. The fact that she seemed to see this as a good way to keep her mind off her little boy in hospital proved absolutely that she didn’t understand the seriousness of the situation.

‘Dr Giraud’s excellent,’ she said quickly. ‘J-J will be in safe hands. But, really, I think you should go home. Wait for news.’

‘I want to help,’ Lucie said firmly. ‘I can’t sit around worrying myself to a thread.’

Raoul stepped in. ‘Thank you,’ he said firmly. ‘I appreciate this. Sandrine does too.’

‘I don’t think it’s a good idea,’ Sandrine said, but neither of them paid any attention.

‘What time will we leave to go to the Cité?’ Lucie said, turning to Sandrine. ‘You have a pass, you said? Will I need one too?’

Sandrine glanced up at the time, then gave in. Raoul was right. She had to have someone on lookout, and Lucie was willing to do it.

‘Yes, everyone’s been issued with an additional special pass for today,’ she said. She went to the kitchen table and got two cards from the drawer. ‘Suzanne made one for me and left the original too.’

Lucie stared at the blurred photograph. ‘It’s not a bad likeness. And if I do my hair in the same style, I think I can pass for . . .’ she peered at the name, ‘Marthe Perard.’

Raoul nodded. ‘Authié and Schiffner are supposed to tour the lices before dinner, which is scheduled for eight o’clock. Sandrine will need to be in place well before that.’

‘You’re not going through with it?’ Lucie asked. ‘Even if Authié does actually make an appearance?’

‘No,’ Sandrine answered, throwing a glance at Raoul. ‘No, in the circumstances, we decided it was too much of a risk. I’m just going to disable the device, so that nobody else gets injured, and get out.’ She paused. ‘There will be other opportunities with Authié.’

Lucie nodded, but didn’t ask anything more.

‘You won’t be able to come back here,’ Raoul said. ‘It’s likely—’

‘Possible,’ Sandrine interrupted.

‘Likely,’ Raoul reiterated, ‘Authié will come here as soon as he realises the mission’s been aborted. He has this address.’

Lucie blushed. And Sandrine realised that in the same way she still felt she should have done more to stop Max being taken, Lucie still felt guilty for talking to Leo Authié.

‘Oh, Lucie,’ she said in a rush, ‘it was such a long time ago. There’s nothing to make up for, not now.’

‘I know, kid,’ Lucie said. ‘But even so . . .’

‘It’s all forgotten.’

‘Forgotten, no.’ Lucie met her gaze. ‘Two years ago, you came with me to Le Vernet. Despite what I’d done, talking to Authié. It was stupid to go and I shouldn’t have let you take the risk. But I was an idiot and you came all the same.’ She caught her breath. ‘You did it for me. For Max, though you didn’t know him. And even before we knew Max wasn’t going to be coming back, you and Marianne took Liesl in too.’ She looked at Sandrine. ‘Do you see now, kid?’

For a moment, they just looked at one another.

‘Yes,’ Sandrine said. And for the first time since they had put the plan to Lucie, she thought it might be all right. She’d underestimated Lucie. Assumed she was walking into this without thinking, when in fact she knew precisely what she was doing. And why. ‘Yes, I see.’

‘Good,’ Lucie said briskly. ‘That’s settled then.’ She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, blew her nose, then nodded, to confirm the decision taken.

Sandrine glanced at Raoul and saw the relief in his face.

‘Happy now?’ she murmured, taking his hand.

He laughed. ‘Less unhappy.’

‘What are you going to do?’ she asked. ‘I don’t think Authié will come here before tonight, but he might. You shouldn’t stay here.’

‘I agree.’

‘Where will you go? Can Robert Bonnet help?’

‘Home,’ he said quietly. He gave a long, weary sigh.

‘Do you mean the Quai Riquet?’ Sandrine said with surprise. She knew he felt bad about how infrequently he visited his mother, but he thought it kept her safer. ‘Has something happened? Has her neighbour been in touch with you?’

Raoul shook his head. ‘No. But when we leave tonight, we’re not likely to be back. Are we? Not now Authié’s here.’ He sighed. ‘I owe it to her to say goodbye.’

‘She didn’t know you last time, did she?’ Sandrine said quietly. ‘Are you sure it’s not better to leave her be?’

‘Other people have looked after her, when it should have been me,’ he said. ‘I’ve stayed away. For the right reasons, but I feel I owe it to her.’

‘Authié might have put the apartment under surveillance, have you considered that?’

‘I doubt it. I’ve barely been there in two years, anyone would say the same. There’s no reason for him to think I’d be there.’

Sandrine didn’t want him to go, though she accepted he had to spend the next twelve hours somewhere. But every time he went into the Bastide, she was terrified he’d be spotted and picked up. It hadn’t happened yet, but that didn’t mean anything. It only meant their luck had held.

‘I don’t think . . .’ she began, then stopped herself. ‘Be careful,’ she whispered.

‘Aren’t I always?’ He smiled. ‘Where shall we meet? You shouldn’t come back here either.’

‘No.’

Raoul rested his hand against her cheek. ‘What about chez Cazaintre?’ he said. ‘I’ll make sure the side gate’s open.’

Sandrine nodded. ‘All right.’

Lucie frowned. ‘Where’s that? Is it a bar? Would I have heard of it?’

Sandrine shook her head. ‘Cazaintre was the architect of the Jardin du Calvaire in the 1820s. It’s one of the places we use as a drop-off and collection point for Libertat.’

‘One of them?’

‘That’s right. “The Naiads” is the fountain in Place Carnot, “Monsieur Riquet’s bathing house” is the steps on the north side of the Canal du Midi and “Monsieur Courtejaire is asleep” means that the pick-up is Courtejaire’s grave in the cimetière Saint-Michael.’

Lucie smiled. ‘Smart.’

‘It’s worked so far,’ Sandrine said.

Raoul took her hand. ‘I’ll wait there until you come.’

She smiled, masking the way the nerves were already hammering in her chest.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘It’s going to be all right. You’ll see. This time tomorrow, we’ll be in Coustaussa.’

Chapter 120

TARASCON

A silver mist skimmed the tops of the trees on the slopes below the Pic de Vicdessos, as dawn began to give colour back to the world.

Audric Baillard had come alone, leaving the house before first light while Pujol was still sleeping off the effects of the previous evening’s wine. He thought Pujol would have tried to stop him or else insisted on accompanying him. Neither suited Baillard’s purposes. He knew these old Cathar routes like the back of his hand. Despite his weakened state, he was certain he could evade any Nazi patrols operating in the mountains. More, he didn’t want to put his old friend at risk.

He looked down at the milk-white scrap of cloth in his hand, Arinius’ map of where the Codex had been hidden some sixteen hundred years before. Safe, there, for all that time. For a moment, in the shimmering dawn, Baillard suddenly saw his younger self reflected back at him. A boy still, being entrusted with another map by his grandmother, a map leading him and those for whom he was responsible to the village of Los Seres.

‘La Vallée des Trois Loups,’ he said aloud. Eloise and Geneviève had told him the valley had such a name, though it appeared on no map. Even with his extensive knowledge of the myths and legends of the hills, he had never heard it called that.

He closed his eyes. As the timelessness of the ancient forests and mountains seeped into his tired bones, another memory. Himself as a young man – no older than Raoul Pelletier was now, no older than Viscount Trencavel when he gave his life to save the people of Carcassonne – travelling through these lands during another occupation. Remembering how the Inquisitors went from village to village, accusing and denouncing and condemning. Spies everywhere, neighbour denouncing neighbour, until no one knew who to trust. Corpses exhumed to be burned as heretics. The Cathars and freedom fighters of the Midi being pushed back and back into the mountains. The raid in Limoux just days ago, reminding him of another raid in the peaceful mountain town where friends of his had been seized. The inquisitional courts, mirrored now by the trials conducted by the Gestapo. And those few who survived the interrogation to be released, forced to wear a scrap of yellow cloth stitched to their garments.

A cross then, a star now.

Baillard shook his head. The time had come. While he was imprisoned in Rivesaltes, he had not been able to act. The decision had been taken from him. Now he could avoid it no longer. As he looked up at the ridges and crests ahead and compared them to Arinius’ map, he knew he was in the right place. Although the forest had been cut back over the centuries, the essential landscape remained unchanged.

Now, as then.

In his youth, Baillard had taken a vow to bear witness. To speak out so that the truth should not die. He had given his word. He had known great joy in his life, but also great sorrow. His destiny was to watch those he loved live and grow old. In time, to die. Generation unto generation.

He allowed his thoughts to fly north to Chartres. It was a city that had been part of his life for so long, even though he had never been there. Several times he had tried, several times he had failed. He had never seen the labyrinth in the nave of the great Gothic cathedral. He had never met the descendants of those he had fought so long ago and fought against still. But he knew the jackals were coming. Once more, from Chartres to Carcassonne. The names were different – Leo Authié and François Cecil-Baptiste de l’Oradore – but their intentions were the same. Coming, as Baillard’s enemies had done before, in search of the secrets of the Languedoc.

As he stood in solitude, the soft morning air on his face, Baillard knew he was not yet strong enough to begin the climb into the mountains. But he needed to be here, in the peace and silence, to make his decision. To listen to the voices and to hope they would guide him.

‘Per lo Miègjorn,’ he murmured.

In his head, he heard the battle cry. Trencavel’s brave chevaliers attempting to defend the Cité against the northern crusaders. The clash of steel and the sweet, hot smell of blood. In a matter of days, the Jewish quarter had been destroyed, the suburbs of Sant-Vincens and Sant-Miquel put to the flame, the women and men of Carcassonne expelled like refugees from their homes.

Then, as now.

There was no doubt in his mind. He would return, as soon as he had gathered his strength. He would gather to him those who would help him. Sandrine Vidal and Raoul Pelletier, Achille Pujol and Eloise and Guillaume Breillac. With their help, he would retrieve the Codex and bring it down from the mountain.

Most of all, Sandrine Vidal.

He did not know why he was certain that she was so important in this story, only that she was. Two years ago she had told him of the dreams she sometimes had at night. Of the sensation of slipping out of time, falling from one dimension into another through white space. Of the indistinct figures hunting her down – white and red and black and green – their faces hidden beneath hoods and shadow and flame. The glint of metal where should have been skin. Baillard did not know yet what the Codex contained, but he recognised echoes of the Book of Revelation in her nightmares and wondered at it.

Was she linked in some way to the Codex and its history? Was it chance, or was there a design behind the fact that Sandrine had come upon Antoine Déjean at the river that day and heard the words he spoke? Happenstance or destiny?

Baillard sighed. Once more, he was being called upon to drive the invaders from the green lands of the Languedoc. Once more, to fight to liberate the Midi. To protect the ancient secrets buried in the mountains. He turned to the west, where the labyrinth cave lay hidden within the folds of the Sabarthès mountains. Then returned his eyes to the images on the milk-white scrap of cloth.

Baillard feared the power of the Codex. He feared he would not be equal to the task and would fail to control the forces that might be unleashed. But he was resolved to act. He had no other choice, whatever the consequences might be.

‘Come forth the spirits of the air.’ He spoke the words that had lain in the dusty recesses of his mind through his long captivity. ‘Come forth the armies of the air.’

He paused. He listened. And, carried on the air, he heard the land begin to answer.

‘Benlèu,’ he whispered. Soon.

Chapter 121

CARCASSONNE

Raoul didn’t want to leave, but Sandrine sent him away as soon as the curfew was lifted. She and Lucie needed to get ready and he shouldn’t be out on the streets for any longer than absolutely necessary.

‘And you can’t stay here,’ she said.

Raoul put his arms around her waist and drew her to him. ‘Be careful, ma belle.’

She smiled. ‘You too.’

‘Chez Cazaintre.’

Sandrine nodded. ‘And don’t be late!’ She leant forward and kissed him.

Raoul left the rue du Palais by the garden gate, into the rue du Strasbourg, down to the riverbank and along. He took an even more circuitous route than usual, to make sure he wasn’t being followed. His eyes darted left and right, watching for patrols or Milice informers. Every journey he was obliged to make during daylight hours was undertaken with a knot in his chest, hands balled into fists, his heart bumping one beat into the next.

No one paid him any attention.

He went out of town towards the Aire de la Pépinière, then doubled back to approach the Quai Riquet from the route de Minervois. There was a blind corner underneath the railway bridge by the station. Coming at it from the eastern side of the Bastide, he could see the whole sweep of the road clearly.

There were no police, no military vehicles, no sounds. Nothing to see but the ripple of the Canal du Midi and no noise but the water lapping against the wooden hulls of the barges moored on the riverbank.

Raoul walked quickly along the narrow pavement in the light of the rising sun and into the building. Careful not to hurry, careful not to idle. The street door to the building where his mother lived stood open, as it always had done. The familiar smell in the hallway, polish and the chill of the floor tiles, caught at his heart. Taking him back to a time when he and Bruno had been rough-and-tumble brothers, eager every morning to be allowed out to play. Watching the barges transporting food and grain along the Canal du Midi, the coopers with barrels of beer and wine from Toulouse, the stevedores with their wide-brimmed hats and faces tanned dark by the sun. Sometimes a sou for holding a horse’s harness while the men went to the down-and-out bar to drink after the sun had gone down.

He took a deep breath, banishing the ghosts of the past, then mounted the stairs two by two to the first floor. It seemed strange to do it, but he didn’t want to scare his mother, so he knocked at the door. Nothing happened. He heard no footsteps, no sound from the wireless or voices talking. He hesitated, then fished the latch key out of his pocket. He put it into the lock and turned.

‘Maman, c’est moi,’ he said, stepping into the apartment.

The silence surged around him like a living thing, curious and intrusive. It seemed cold in the flat, though Raoul couldn’t have said why.

‘Maman?’

A sense of foreboding swept through him.

‘It’s me, Raoul.’

There was a strange noise he couldn’t identify. High-pitched, angry, like a thousand flies trapped in a boy’s jar. The buzzing and humming, and the smell. A putrefying stench that seemed to seep from under the door, sticking to his skin and his hair and his clothes. He looked down and saw that he was standing in water.

‘Maman,’ he said, fear catching in his throat. Or was it grief?

Raoul put out his hand and pushed open the door into the kitchen. Time stopped. He seemed to be looking down on the scene from outside. His hand on the wooden panel of the door – eyes open, heart thudding, the pulse of blood in his head – and seeing, but being unable to take in what he saw. And the sound. The drone of the buzzing and the humming of the black cloud around his mother’s face.

She was sitting in a chair facing the kitchen window. Her body was swollen, purple turning to black, plump in death as she had not been in life. Raoul swallowed hard, snatching his handkerchief from his pocket and clamping it over his nose and mouth. Struggling to keep his emotions in check, he forced himself to think.

Think, not feel.

He had seen men die. Seen their bodies decay when they couldn’t be reached to bring them back to base, in France’s six weeks of fighting in May 1940. So he knew that the death chill that set in immediately was followed, within two to six hours, by rigor mortis. From cold to warm again, it was only days later that the body started to putrefy. Bloating, swelling, turning in upon itself.

The arrangement had been that their neighbour came in every other day. But what if she had forgotten? What if she’d been arrested? What if she stopped bothering, knowing no one else would come?

Was this his fault?

Raoul stood still, his emotions suspended, aware of the lap of water around his shoes, but yet unable to process the information. When had his mother died? Two days ago? Three? Where had he been when she’d taken her last breath? In Limoux, in Carcassonne?

Feeling as if everything was happening to someone else – a man who looked like him, stood like him, grieved like him – Raoul looked around the room. He realised the tap was running into the overflowing sink. He crossed the room in a couple of strides and turned it off, then took the plug out. A gurgle and a gulp and the sink began to drain. He leaned forward and opened the window as high as it would go, then rushed through the flat opening every other window to let the foul smell seep out. He couldn’t bring himself to go closer to the chair where his mother sat.

There were no obvious signs that anyone had been here, but he had to be sure. People didn’t just die. They didn’t just sit in a chair and stop breathing. Did they?

What had happened?

Raoul shook his head, numb with disbelief. He should do something. Call the undertaker, ensure that the dignity that had been taken from her in the hour of her passing was restored to her. Be a good son in this, at least. But he couldn’t, not yet.

He searched the flat. In each room, the same story. His distress grew, his sense of failure at having let her become so ill. Having left her alone. Everywhere were the scribbled notes, the same words written over and over again. On scraps of newspaper, on the cover of a paperback book, on the brown paper packaging of a loaf of bread delivered and not eaten.

‘Les fantômes,’ he muttered. Ghosts.

He screwed up the scrap of newspaper and threw it to the floor. The cheap paper swelled in the centimetre of water, then opened up like a flower.

A shiver went down his spine. He remembered how she stood at the kitchen window, looking out. Waiting for Bruno to come. How much it had frustrated him and upset him and made him angry, because he could do nothing to assuage her grief. All the time talking about how the ghosts would come, that the spirits were waking.

Ghosts?

He had dismissed all of it as delusion. The result of grief and heartbreak too much to bear and the loss of her favourite son. But that was then. Before he met Sandrine, before he sat in Coustaussa and listened to Monsieur Baillard tell stories of the Codex and a ghost army that might save the Midi.

Raoul ran back into his mother’s bedroom, throwing everything to one side, searching for something he’d seen on her nightstand. He took a deep breath and looked down at the desperate message. An empty pill bottle, was that it? But everywhere, words printed in block capitals in pencil on a sheet of cheap blue writing paper: FANTÔMES, ARMÉE, MONTAGNES. Then, on the lines beneath, single words written over and over again like an embroidered pattern: VERRE VERRE VERRE, FEU FEU FEU.

‘Glass and fire,’ he murmured.

He rushed back into the sitting room, thinking he must tell Sandrine. See what she thought. Then he remembered. She and Lucie were on their way to the Cité.

Finally, the horror hit him.

He turned round and saw his mother, for the first time saw her as she was. He doubled over, sorrow and pity ripping his insides open, and emptied his guts. Raoul realised, now, of course. His mother had been dead for two days. The anniversary of Bruno’s birthday. How had she done it? Those pills? Or had her heart simply stopped beating? She had kept going, but where was the sense in it? The loss did not get easier to bear and the war did not end. Bruno was dead and he – the son she did not miss – never came.

Raoul gathered his mother’s last testament – the ghosts that only she had been able to see – and left the apartment where he had spent the first eighteen years of his life. He slipped a note under the door of their neighbour on the ground floor, hoping no harm had come to her, then stepped out into the street.

The peaceful sunlight on the canal mocked the horror of the scene in the room he had left. Raoul hesitated for a moment, then turned and walked to the underground bar. He didn’t know if it would be open or if they would let him in without a password, but he couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.

Was it his fault?

The hatch slid back. He sensed a pair of eyes looking at him, then the grating sound of the bolt being shot, and the door opened a fraction.

‘I need a drink.’

A hand pulled him inside. Raoul heard the door shut behind him. He turned to thank the man and found, for some reason, he couldn’t see him properly. He raised his hand to his eyes and realised that his cheeks were wet.

‘Sandrine,’ he whispered, wanting only for her to be with him. For her to be safe.

‘Come on,’ the man said. His voice was gruff, but kind. ‘There’s one or two others in already.’

Chapter 122

The milicien stood to attention when Laval came into the room. Laval took no notice of him, merely strode to the side window and looked out, then moved to the front window which gave on to the rue du Palais itself. The street was empty in both directions.

‘No one’s approached the house?’

‘No, sir.’

‘So as far as we know, the subjects are still inside?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘Not that I’ve seen.’

The police officer was too scared to admit he had fallen asleep at his post. He’d come on duty at six, after a late shift at the railway yard – every night there were attempts on the rolling stock, thefts of metal and wood – his second in a row. The combination of the stuffiness of the house and the shot of brandy Madame Fournier had given him to perk him up had sent him off for ten minutes, possibly more. He thought he might have heard something, voices perhaps, but he wasn’t sure if they’d come from the house next door or the street. He decided to say nothing.

Madame Fournier, her hands clasped in front of her, appeared in the doorway.

‘Is there anything I can get you, monsieur lieutenant?’ she asked. ‘Anything you need? Or your men need?’

‘No,’ Laval said abruptly.

He found her presence irritating – he always hated undertaking surveillance in civilian houses – and her need to be useful repelled him. Madame Fournier’s face hardened for a moment, then settled back into its habitual obsequious expression.

‘Well, if you do, let me know,’ she said, and went away.

The milicien glanced at her disapproving back. Laval ignored her. In his opinion, she had been of limited help. In addition to Marianne and Sandrine Vidal, and Suzanne Peyre, she’d said there was another woman with a little boy who visited occasionally. When pressed, she said that ‘foreign-looking’ men did sometimes call. Laval knew her type. Trying to make herself important.

Laval glanced at the clock, then back to the road. In the absence of hard evidence, he did not share Authié’s conviction it was Sandrine Vidal – with or without Raoul Pelletier’s assistance – who’d set the device in the Tour de la Justice. Apart from the sentry confirming something was there, they had not gone into the tower on Authié’s orders. He didn’t want the insurgents to know that it had been spotted.

Laval still thought Authié had made a mistake in not raiding the Vidal house the previous night, even though it suited his purposes to be able to be in the rue du Palais at this point.

After more than two years at Authié’s side, he had learnt to read his commanding officer well. He was aware that Authié had evidence to implicate him in the murder of Bauer and his men in August 1942. He also knew Authié had been shocked when de l’Oradore, a devout Catholic, had not destroyed the Codex. The words had been condemned by the Church in the fourth century. Authié assumed that instruction still held good in the twentieth.

Now it appeared the document was a forgery. This time Laval knew Authié would not hand the Codex over. He would deal with the matter himself, believing he’d been given a second chance. He had told Laval as much.

Which was why Laval had to make sure he found the Codex before Authié did. And he agreed that the surest way was to find Sandrine Vidal. He, too, had a second chance.

Laval glanced again at the clock. His visitor should be here at any moment. A middle-ranking officer and senior archaeologist working for the Ahnenerbe, he reported directly to Reichsführer Himmler. In return for handing over the Codex, Laval would be given a guarantee of safe passage to Berlin if – when – the Wehrmacht pulled out of the Aude.

Laval heard footsteps on the stairs, then another milicien came into the room.

‘A man approaching the house, sir.’

Immediately the atmosphere changed. Laval turned to face him.

‘Front or back?’

‘Front.’ He paused. ‘German, sir. Not one of ours.’

Laval moved to the window and saw a tall man, black cap, black tunic and breeches, black dress boots, on his arm the distinctive insignia – the double sig rune – of the Ahnenerbe.

‘You,’ he ordered, pointing at the first milicien, ‘keep Madame Fournier out of the way.’ He turned to his colleague. ‘You, let our visitor in. No one is to do anything – anything at all – except on my orders. Is that clear?’

Raoul was sitting with Robert Bonnet. The bar was tawdry and down at heel in the harsh light of day. It smelt of yesterday’s sweat and spilt beer and stale tobacco. The owner didn’t want trouble. Having let Raoul in, he’d taken one look at him, at the state he was in, and sent someone to fetch Bonnet.

‘You did what you could, Pelletier,’ Robert said again.

Raoul ran his finger round the top of his glass. He felt crushed by guilt, by the horror of what he’d witnessed. Bonnet had taken charge and sent Yvette to the undertaker with an unsigned note asking him to call at the Quai Riquet – none of them could risk giving their names. The undertaker would publish details in the newspaper of the funeral arrangements.

‘I didn’t do enough. I handed over my responsibility to someone else. I should have made sure she—’

‘Pelletier,’ Bonnet said sharply, putting his hand on Raoul’s arm, ‘she’d had enough. You told me that almost the first time we met. When was that? Three years ago, give or take? You said then she had never got over your brother’s death. If anything, you should be pleased with yourself that you kept her alive for so long.’

‘Why wasn’t the neighbour there?’ Raoul put his head in his hands. ‘When did she leave? My mother . . .’ He paused, then began again. ‘She must have felt abandoned, no one coming to see if she was all right. What if she wanted help?’

‘You found the bottle empty,’ Robert said quietly.

Raoul felt numb, dead through shock.

‘If she wanted to go,’ Bonnet continued, ‘there’s not a thing you – or anyone else – could have done to stop her. If it’s any consolation, she won’t have suffered. Pills, all very peaceful. Just gone to sleep and not woken up. It’s what she chose.’

‘But the state of the place, Bonnet,’ Raoul said, picturing the scraps of paper, the words written on every surface, over and again. ‘She wasn’t in her right mind. She can’t have been.’

‘The doctor will record it as a heart attack,’ Bonnet said. ‘You needn’t worry about that.’

Raoul looked up at him. He hadn’t even been thinking about what would happen if her death was registered as a suicide.

‘It was no one’s fault,’ Bonnet continued. ‘One of those things you couldn’t do anything about.’

Raoul knew Bonnet was doing his best to help. ‘If you’d known her before, before Bruno died, before she got ill. A wonderful woman. One of those rare people, popular with everyone. Our friends, neighbours. No one had a bad word to say about her.’

Robert nodded, letting him talk.

‘Never the same after my brother died,’ he continued, knowing he was repeating things he’d already said. ‘She never got over it.’

Bonnet got up and went back to the bar, returning with another couple of glasses of what passed for beer.

‘What are we doing, Bonnet?’ Raoul gestured at the empty bar. ‘Look at us, cowering underground. Everything we do, all of this? Does it even make any difference?’

‘You know it does.’

Raoul suddenly stopped. He shouldn’t drink any more, he knew that, but he was caught between grief and fear. And guilt. His mother dead in the apartment. Sandrine somewhere in the Bastide. Making her way towards the Cité. Perhaps she was inside already?

Caught?

He rubbed his eyes. The not knowing was the worst of it. Sitting on his hands, unable to do anything. He had a flash of insight into what it must have been like for Sandrine over these past months when he’d been in the mountains. Never knowing if he was alive or dead.

‘I let her down.’

Robert lit a cigarette, handed it to Raoul, then took one for himself. ‘No sense thinking like that,’ he said.

He shook his head. ‘If you’d seen the mess, Bonnet. Water everywhere. Paper everywhere . . . Awful.’

Raoul slumped forward, elbows on the table, going over in his mind the arguments Sandrine had put forward about why it should be her who went back to the Tour du Grand Burlas, not him. Her reasons had made sense at the time, but not any more.

What kind of man was he that he’d let her go?

‘I should have stopped her,’ he muttered.

‘I’m telling you, Pelletier, there was nothing you could have done. Your mother knew what she was doing.’

Raoul shook his head. ‘Not my mother,’ he said. ‘Sandrine.’

For a moment, Robert sat very still, then he dropped his voice. ‘She’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘She’s special, that girl of yours. She knows what she’s doing.’

Raoul looked at him, remembering a similar conversation he’d had with a young boy in the hills outside Belcaire. Fiercely in love, carrying a photograph of his girl, Coralie Saint-Loup. They were still out there, so far as he knew, doing their best. Trying to live normal lives in the middle of all the madness.

‘When all this is over, you should make an honest woman of her,’ Bonnet continued.

Raoul nodded. ‘Will you stand as my best man, Bonnet?’

‘It’d be an honour.’ He drained his glass and stood up. ‘But you’re no use to her like this, Pelletier. Let’s get you sobered up. Sandrine will be back soon. You need to be ready. Yes?’

Raoul met his gaze. He knew Bonnet was right. His mother was beyond his help. Yesterday, he had held Sandrine in his arms and comforted her. He had looked after her. He needed to be ready to look after her again, if she’d let him. Pushing his three-quarter-full glass away, he stood up.

‘Thanks, Bonnet,’ he said quietly.

‘You’d do the same for me.’

‘I would.’

Raoul felt his heart return to its regular beat, his resolve strengthen. The knot of fear in his chest loosened just a little. Life went on. Maybe it shouldn’t, but it did, all the same. They had to hold their nerve a little longer. Then it would be over. Everyone said it would be over soon.

‘Ready?’

Raoul nodded. Bonnet raised his hand to the barman, then the two men walked to the narrow stairs that led up to the pavement.

‘I’ll stand for you, Pelletier, and you can do the same for me and Yvette,’ Bonnet said. ‘What about that?’

‘Have you asked her?’

Bonnet patted his pocket. ‘Not yet. Waiting for the right time.’

As he waited for the door to be unbolted, Raoul tried the name out in his head. Madame Raoul Pelletier. He smiled. No, Madame Sandrine Pelletier. He thought it suited her. A strong name.

The doorman shot the bolt. Raoul took a deep breath. ‘I’ll go first,’ he said. ‘And thanks again.’

The doorman checked the street was empty. He gave a brief nod, and without a backward glance, Raoul stepped out into the sunshine and headed back towards the Aire de la Pépinière to wait out the afternoon.

‘The library was evacuated to Ulm,’ the Nazi said. ‘For a year now since the Allied bombing of Hamburg.’

‘That’s where you want me to deliver the Codex?’ Laval asked.

The Nazi narrowed his eyes. ‘If it should take longer than you anticipate – and I am therefore unable to take the document with me personally – then you will make arrangements.’

‘But you are based in Swabia?’ Laval persisted.

‘I am not. Whilst the library was taken to Ulm, the Ahnenerbe staff were located to Waischenfeld in Bavaria. It is a small village, but at the centre of operations all the same.’

Bavaria was the heartland of Nazi support, even now as the tide was turning against the Axis forces.

‘You’ll provide appropriate papers?’ Laval asked. ‘A guarantee of safe passage?’

‘If you deliver what you promise, Herr Laval, you will be coming to Germany as our guest. There will be no difficulties.’

Laval nodded. ‘How long do you intend to remain in Carcassonne, Unterscharführer Heinkel?’

‘A day or two at most.’

Laval held out his hand. ‘Then we shall see what might be achieved in the next forty-eight hours.’

The two men shook hands. Laval showed him out. Madame Fournier was lurking behind the half-open kitchen door. He affected not to see her. She wouldn’t say anything that would lead Authié – anyone – to think that the meeting was out of the ordinary. However, it was important neither of the miliciens said anything out of turn. Laval didn’t think they’d identified Heinkel’s SS rank or realised he was not from the unit involved in the surveillance operation, but he needed to be sure.

He shouted for the pair and they came running, one from the back of the house and one down from the first floor.

‘According to the liaison officer, everything is as planned,’ Laval said sharply. ‘All personnel are in position in the Cité. I have reported that there has been no activity around the Tour de la Justice this morning, but I have given assurances that you will both remain at your posts here and radio immediately should anything change.’ He looked at the two men in turn, fixing them each with a cold, appraising eye. ‘Clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Sir.’

Laval nodded. He looked at the clock. The meeting with Heinkel had lasted longer than he’d expected, which didn’t give him much time before he was due to report to Authié at two and then to go to the Cité himself. He needed something to demonstrate he had been active during the morning. Information on the French scholar that de l’Oradore had asked Authié to obtain. He would return to the police archives and see what – if any – information they were holding on Audric Baillard.

‘I will return at five,’ he said. ‘When does your shift finish?’

‘At six, sir.’

‘Good.’ Laval nodded. ‘In the meantime, if anyone goes in or out, inform headquarters.’

Chapter 123

Sandrine and Lucie sat on a bench in Square Gambetta. Both wore headscarves, plain summer dresses and flat lace-up shoes. They looked like any other Carcassonnais women ground down by the daily struggle of trying to get by.

Sandrine hadn’t wanted to risk staying in the house, so she and Lucie had spent the time moving from place to place in the Bastide. They avoided their usual haunts, in case they were being followed, staying instead in public places where there were more people coming and going.

Her plan was that they should change their clothes once they were on the Cité side of the river. Although security was always tight – and it would be tighter than ever today – there were usually girls in the garrison, collabos horizontales. The soldiers turned a blind eye.

The heat had driven most people indoors, but four little girls were playing un, deux, trois loup on the steps of the bandstand. A podgy child with pigtails and a checked dress spun around and roared, and her friends scattered squealing.

‘You notice the wolf always wins,’ Lucie said.

Sandrine smiled. ‘The odds are stacked in her favour.’

She looked over at the statue. For a split second, with the shimmering heat haze and the deep contrast between the light and the shade, she could have sworn she saw the angel’s stone wings move. Her hands grasp the sword tighter in her white hands. She frowned and blinked, then looked again. This time the folds of wing and feather were lifeless and fixed firmly in place.

Sandrine caught her breath.

‘Are you all right?’ Lucie asked.

‘Yes.’ She gave a sharp shake of her head, bringing herself back to the present. ‘What about you? Not worrying too much about Jean-Jacques?’

Lucie shrugged. ‘You can’t help yourself, you worry all the time anyway.’ She glanced at Sandrine, then back to the still waters of the lake in the centre of the gardens. ‘You’ll have a son of your own one day, then you’ll know.’

A son, Sandrine thought. A son or a daughter. Actually, she’d prefer a daughter first. Maybe two girls, like her and Marianne. For a moment, she allowed her thoughts to float free, thinking of ribbons and smocked dresses and Marieta drawing a bath with soap bubbles on a Sunday evening in readiness for school the next day.

Then the sound of the bells of Saint-Michel floated across the Bastide in the hot afternoon air and the smile faded from Sandrine’s face. She felt Lucie turn to look at her.

‘Time to move on again?’ she asked.

Sandrine nodded and got up. ‘We’re going to cross the river now.’

‘Whatever you say, kid.’

They crossed Square Gambetta and went past the hospital, then joined the queue of people waiting to be allowed across the Pont Vieux. Sandrine was nervous and her heart was beating nineteen to the dozen. From Lucie’s quick, small steps, Sandrine knew she was on pins too.

‘Ausweis,’ the guard said.

In silence, Sandrine handed over the false identity card. The soldier scanned it and thrust it back at her without a word. Then he took Lucie’s, looked at it closely and glanced up at her face. Sandrine held her breath, but Lucie kept her nerve. She didn’t look nervous or smile or do anything to suggest she was worried. After a few tense seconds, the soldier gave it back and waved them both past the checkpoint and on to the bridge.

‘Danke schön,’ Sandrine said.

They went through the same procedure with the Wehrmacht soldiers manning the concrete fortifications on the far side of the bridge. Again, the time dragged as their cards were checked, but then they were through and walking into rue Trivalle.

Sandrine forced herself not to hurry, not to give them away by rushing or looking wary. During the course of the day, she’d revised the plan. Rather than go in through the Porte Narbonnaise, putting the false cards to the test, she’d decided it might be better to see if the route into the Cité she and Raoul had used last night was still a possibility. Unless a local had pointed it out, the soldiers might not be aware of the secondary gate – it wasn’t visible from the inner fortifications. And even if the Wehrmacht or Gestapo had brought in Milice to sweep the area, in the south-west quadrant of the Cité, too, there was still cover from trees and bushes.

If they had found the gate, or if there were soldiers outside the walls, not only posted in the lices, then Sandrine intended to continue round to the Porte Narbonnaise and revert to her original plan.

‘This way,’ she said.

She guided Lucie to the right and along rue de la Barbacane. To her credit, Lucie didn’t miss a step, just followed Sandrine. They walked past the rue de la Gaffe, where the Giraud family lived, then crossed in front of the église Saint-Gimer, left into rue Petite Côte de la Cité and right into rue Longue. She stopped at the fourth house along, knocked three times on the wooden shutter. She paused, then knocked again.

The door was opened, though Sandrine saw no one. They found themselves in a dark hallway, with a door standing open to the right. Without a word, Sandrine and Lucie removed their scarves, sensible shoes and dresses, and put on the cheap, gaudy dresses laid out on the chairs. Lucie clipped on white plastic earrings and a matching necklace. Sandrine tightened a wide patent belt with a gold buckle around the waist of her shiny green dress and slipped her feet into the high heels set beside the hearth.

Lucie produced a tube of red lipstick. She leant forward, looking at her reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece, then handed it to Sandrine.

‘Powder?’ she offered.

Sandrine shook her head. ‘This’ll do,’ she said. ‘And you’re quite sure you want to go through with this? It’s not too late to back out.’

‘I’m sure, kid.’

Leaving their old clothes in the room, together with a bottle of rosé as payment, the girls let themselves out. Moving more slowly now, in their heels, they walked to the end of rue Longue, through a switchback of alleyways, then on to the rue des Anglais. All the time, Sandrine was watching for patrols, for soldiers, for police. They got almost all the way to the top of the road before their luck ran out.

A jeep carrying four Wehrmacht soldiers was coming towards them. Sandrine hoped they would be too busy to stop, but since they were on the edge of a restricted area, she knew the odds were against them.

One of the soldiers gave a wolf whistle, but was immediately silenced by a look from the commanding officer, who jumped down, his lieutenant beside him, and walked over.

‘Captain,’ said Lucie brightly.

He didn’t smile. ‘Ausweis,’ he demanded, holding out his hand.

Both women again got out the false cards and passed them over in silence. He returned Sandrine’s card, but stared more carefully at the image on Lucie’s.

‘This is you?’ he said, holding the photograph close to Lucie. ‘Marthe Perard?’

‘It is,’ she said, putting on a blowsy voice. ‘It’s an old photograph and there’s a little less of me than there was.’ She shrugged. ‘Not so good for the looks. Ever so difficult to find what a girl needs.’

In the truck, one of the soldiers sniggered.

‘Ruhe!’ the captain shouted.

‘It’s a restricted zone,’ he said in stilted but accurate French.

‘Even for ladies with an invitation?’ Lucie said.

The captain flushed. For a long moment, Sandrine thought he might insist on accompanying them. But he returned her card.

‘Present your papers at the Porte Narbonnaise,’ he said coldly. ‘If your names are on the list, you will of course be permitted to enter.’

‘Thanks ever so,’ Lucie giggled. ‘Danke.’

The captain and lieutenant got back into the truck and continued down the chemin des Anglais. Lucie gave a little wave to the soldiers looking longingly back at her as they drove round the corner and vanished from view.

Sandrine gave a long sigh of relief. ‘Well done,’ she said. ‘That was . . .’

Lucie pulled a face. ‘You’re going to have to make a bit more effort than that, if you want to persuade them you’re a working girl.’

Sandrine blushed. ‘I’m just no good at that kind of thing.’

‘It doesn’t come naturally to me either,’ Lucie said wryly.

Sandrine shook her head. ‘I know, of course it doesn’t. But you’re very good. A born actress.’ She sighed. ‘Come on, we need to keep moving.’

The small hairs on the back of Sandrine’s neck were standing on end. She’d concentrated so much on the practicalities of getting to the Tour du Grand Burlas unobserved that she’d hardly thought about what she had to do. Suzanne was good, one of the best. Her devices rarely malfunctioned, rarely blew up before they were designed to. But it happened, Sandrine knew it could happen. One false move, one touch of the wrong wire.

‘If anything goes wrong,’ she said to Lucie, ‘save yourself. Get away as quickly as you can.’

‘Nothing’s going to go wrong,’ Lucie said. ‘I have every faith in you.’ She smiled. ‘Always have, kid.’

Chapter 124

‘Why am I here?’ the old man said.

Giraud was in an airless interrogation room in the Commissariat. A table, two chairs, no window. He was hiding his fear as best he could, but his watery eyes skittered from the table to the door to the two blue berets keeping guard.

‘On whose orders have I been brought here?’

It was the end of the afternoon. Giraud had been arrested in boulevard Barbès. Since midday he had been sitting in the shade of the lime trees, keeping watch on the door of the Clinique du Bastion. His son had been forced to change his plans. Rather than a day of performing operations, he’d been called to help two injured maquisards, hiding at a house in Trèbes. His daughter-in-law Jeanne had spent the morning telling patients about the delay and had then taken a little boy, due to have his tonsils out, back home. Giraud had offered to sit guard outside the clinic to stop anyone Jeanne hadn’t been able to tell about the change of plan from trying to go in.

Then the Milice had come. A hand on his arm, a hand in his back, no need to draw their weapons. His only consolation was that he was not the only one, but his fears for his son and daughter-in-law were growing.

‘Why am I here?’ Giraud asked again.

Neither of the miliciens even looked at him. He stood for a moment longer, then sat down again. A few minutes went by in the same heavy silence. No one speaking, Giraud aware of his own nervous intakes of breath, fear growing all the time. If only he knew what they wanted, he could be prepared.

Finally, the door opened. The miliciens sprang to attention and a man walked in. Wearing a light grey suit, he was broader than when Giraud had last seen him, but he recognised him immediately.

‘Wait outside,’ Authié said, dismissing the police.

The miliciens left immediately, closing the door behind them. Giraud watched Authié leaf through his papers. The old man felt tired. Felt his age.

‘Giraud, is it?’ Authié looked up, then his eyes narrowed. ‘Have we met before?’

‘Bastille Day, July 1942,’ he said. ‘You came to talk to me when I was in hospital.’

Authié stared, clearly trying to remember. ‘That’s right.’ He looked back at the list in his hand. ‘Félix Giraud. Residing in rue de la Gaffe, quartier Trivalle? Is that still correct?’

‘It is, Captain Authié.’

‘Major.’

Giraud raised his hand in apology. ‘Major Authié.’

‘And your son is Jean-Marc Giraud?’

‘He is.’

‘Did they force you to help, Monsieur Giraud? If that is the case, the courts have it in their discretion to give a lighter sentence. Two or three years, at most.’

The old man’s eyes flashed with shock at the abruptness of the threat, but he kept his head.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Major Authié.’

Authié gave a thin smile. ‘Did they really think they’d get away with it?’

‘They?’

‘Your son and his colleagues.’

‘There’s obviously been some mistake. My son is a doctor.’

‘A mistake? No, I don’t think so,’ Authié said, tapping the paper. ‘It’s all here. All the comings and goings, odd times of the night. It disturbs the neighbours, you see. They don’t like it.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Giraud repeated. ‘He is a doctor. A good man.’

‘A doctor who helps the insurgents, patches up the terrorists so they can continue to maim and kill innocent people.’

Giraud managed not to react. ‘I can’t tell you anything. I don’t know anything.’

Authié stared. ‘Believe me, Monsieur Giraud, I can assure you that you will discover you have plenty to say.’ He smiled. ‘Although I hope it will not come to that.’

‘I’m a veteran. I live quietly.’

‘Yet you are a supporter of Général de Gaulle?’

‘I am a patriot.’

‘De Gaulle is a traitor. Whereas Maréchal Pétain has worked tirelessly for men like you.’

The old man’s face clouded in confusion. ‘I don’t . . .’

‘To bring home our prisoners of war, Monsieur Giraud. French prisoners of war. Your son amongst them. He’d still be in a POW camp were it not for the Maréchal. The “hero of Verdun”, I’m sure you called him that yourself once upon a time.’

The old man’s expression hardened. ‘That was then.’

Authié let his words hang in the air for a moment.

‘Tell me, Giraud, what do you think about the bombing of the tunnel at Berriac?’

Giraud blinked, struggling to cope with the sudden change of subject.

‘I don’t think anything about it. I don’t know anything.’

‘You didn’t hear about it on the wireless?’

‘I may have done. There’s no crime in listening to the wireless.’

‘What about your daughter-in-law.’ Authié made a show of looking at the papers, although he clearly didn’t need to. ‘Does Jeanne listen to the wireless?’

For the first time, concern flickered in the old man’s eyes. He said nothing. Confident that the threat had been heard and received, Authié moved on.

‘A veteran, yes. Highly decorated. France is – was – in your debt.’ He made another show of glancing at his papers. ‘You don’t belong to the LVF?’

Giraud met his gaze. ‘I do not care for organisations. I keep myself to myself. Live quietly, as I said.’

‘The driver of the Berriac train is in hospital, Monsieur Giraud, two broken arms, broken back. Even if he survives, he will never walk again. Lost the use of his eyes. That’s the reality of being a “patriot”.’

‘I have nothing to say.’

Authié leant forward. ‘Witnesses talk of seeing a young woman in the vicinity of the village of Berriac itself. That wasn’t your daughter-in-law, Monsieur Giraud?’

The alarm in his eyes intensified. ‘Jeanne was at home with me on Sunday night. She’s a good girl.’

‘Sunday night, monsieur?’ he said smoothly. ‘So you do know something about the incident?’

Giraud’s throat was dry. Authié’s questions were muddling him up. He didn’t know what he wanted, so was terrified about, somehow, saying the wrong thing.

‘It was on the wireless. Everyone knows when it happened.’

Authié sat back on his chair. Giraud was one of a dozen older men and women he’d ordered to be rounded up and brought in. None of them had done anything in particular. It was a random selection designed to scare Carcassonne and make it clear that things would be different now he was back.

The résistants and maquisards were skilled at avoiding patrols. Those who were captured mostly refused to talk. Authié considered the Milice – Schiffner’s men too – had failed to pursue tactics that would have delivered information more quickly to the intelligence services. The old Carcassonnais men and women had courage and they were steadfast, but they feared for their children as much as any young mother.

Authié got up and walked around the desk, to perch on the edge immediately in front of Giraud.

‘I don’t know anything about it.’

Authié’s eyes narrowed. ‘Nothing about all the visitors who come to the rue de la Gaffe?’

‘I’m an old man. I don’t get involved.’

Authié saw the old man’s gaze slip to the cross pinned on his lapel.

‘Do you believe in God, Monsieur Giraud?’ Authié said, jabbing him in the chest.

The unexpected physical contact caused Giraud to flinch, but he held Authié’s gaze.

‘My beliefs are my own business.’

‘Do you fear God?’ Authié continued. ‘Do you think God will save you?’

‘I believe men are responsible for their own fate,’ Giraud said with dignity. ‘Our lives are in our own hands.’

‘Do you now?’ Authié murmured. ‘A pity . . .’

‘What do you mean?’

Authié put his hand to his pocket. Giraud flinched, half expecting him to pull out a gun. It was only a photograph.

‘Do you recognise this man?’ Authié asked.

Giraud looked at the black and white image and relief flooded through him. It was not his son – nor any of the men or women who came regularly to the house – though there was something familiar about the face.

‘I may do,’ he said. ‘Who is he?’

‘A man called Raoul Pelletier,’ said Authié. ‘Do you remember, Giraud? That demonstration outside Saint-Michel. You were there. Your daughter-in-law was there.’

Giraud remained silent.

‘A boy died that day,’ he said. ‘Murdered by this man. I interviewed you then.’

‘It was two years ago.’

‘Perhaps you saw Pelletier detonate the bomb?’

‘You asked me then, the answer is the same. I saw nothing.’

‘Are you refusing to help the police, Monsieur Giraud?’

Giraud could feel fear churning in his stomach, but he held his head high and looked Authié in the eye.

‘I cannot testify to something I know to be untrue.’

Authié glanced at him for a moment longer. Then, without emotion, he drove his fist into Giraud’s face. The old man cried out with shock and pain, blood splattering down his shirt. As he put out his thin and frail wrists to break his fall, he heard Authié shout an order.

‘Bring in Jeanne Giraud. Perhaps she will be able to help us.’

‘No,’ Giraud tried to say, but the door slammed shut on his protest.

Chapter 125

Sandrine took off the high-heeled shoes and hid them in the bushes.

‘Good luck,’ Lucie said. ‘If anyone comes, I’ll whistle “Lili Marlene”. Appropriate, don’t you think? The girl under the lantern?’

‘Lucie, be serious,’ Sandrine warned.

‘I am serious,’ Lucie said, the lightness gone from her voice. ‘If you hear me whistle, stay out of sight.’

Sandrine looked up at the outer walls of the Cité. The huge searchlights, blind in the flattening heat of the late afternoon, were set at intervals along the outer walls. She could see Wehrmacht soldiers in pairs patrolling the battlements, but there were no signs of additional troops on this section.

From her hiding place, she counted the time it took for the sentries to walk from one tower to the next before turning back again. The question was how many extra men had been drafted in. Most of the Gestapo wore plain clothes, so Sandrine couldn’t be sure. She hadn’t caught sight of any miliciens, but it didn’t mean they weren’t there.

She wished she could talk her changed tactics over with Raoul. It just seemed obvious, now she was here, that she should act straight away rather than waiting for night to fall. It wasn’t that they weren’t watching now – there had to be some increase in security already – but the Gestapo would expect them to wait until it was dark, until close to the time Authié had been scheduled to arrive.

Motionless, Sandrine could hear nothing more than the usual sounds from the Cité. The soldiers’ boots on the rough stone surface of the battlements marching up and down, occasional orders shouted. It was calm. There was no sense of expectation, no sense that everyone was poised, waiting for something to happen.

Not yet.

For a fleeting moment, a snapshot of herself sitting in Coustaussa with Monsieur Baillard on the evening they had met came into her mind.

‘Evil has not yet won,’ that was what he’d said.

For two years she had fought to make that true. She and Raoul, Marianne and Suzanne, all of them. And, for all the hardship and the fear, they had succeeded in part. They had never given in, they had never allowed themselves to become people they would be ashamed to know. They had held true to their principles and a sense of right and wrong. No collusion, no compromise.

‘Now or never,’ she murmured to herself.

The next time the patrol turned, Sandrine ran. She covered the open ground and threw herself against the grey shadow of the outer wall. She stopped, held her breath, anticipating the wail of an alarm or Lucie’s warning whistle. But nothing happened. The only sound she could hear was her own heart beating, strong in her chest, and the roar of blood in her ears.

She made her way to the low door set in the thick stone walls at the foot of the Tour du Grand Burlas. She studied the padlock. It didn’t look as if it had been tampered with. Trying not to make a sound, she reached out, unhooked the lock and removed the chain, then went inside.

Everything was as they had left it. The device was still propped in the corner, the fuse sticking out like the tail of a mouse, waiting only for the flame to bring it to life. Sandrine gave a sigh of relief. Carefully, she removed the fuse and took the pipe packed full with explosives, as Suzanne had told her to do. It was a waste to leave the rest, but she couldn’t hope to conceal it.

The whole business lasted less than two minutes. She said a silent prayer to a God she didn’t believe in, then started to make her way down towards where Lucie was waiting. She almost tripped on the gravel path, keeping her balance with a gasp and holding the explosive tight against her chest. Just as she thought she was safe, she heard a man’s voice. Immediately she pushed herself back into the shadow of the walls.

‘You after a bit of company?’

‘No, thanks ever so much, I’m waiting for my friend,’ she heard Lucie reply in the same blowsy voice she’d used earlier. She didn’t sound frightened or alarmed.

‘You sure about that?’

‘Quite sure.’

‘That’s a shame . . .’ he said. ‘I could do with some company.’

Sandrine sighed with relief. He sounded drunk. Not a soldier, not Milice. She edged closer until she could just see them. He reached out an unsteady hand.

‘Come on, love.’

‘No,’ Lucie said sharply, taking a step back. ‘Thanks.’

‘I’ll show you a good time,’ he was promising. ‘The best. I know where a girl can get a drink.’

He dropped two heavy hands on Lucie’s shoulders.

‘Get your hands off me!’

‘Give us a kiss then.’

Lucie tried to pull away. ‘That’s enough.’

‘Keep it down out there!’ someone shouted out of a window.

‘Sshh,’ the drunk slurred, putting his finger to his lips. ‘Sshh.’

The man’s voice was getting louder and louder. Then he started to sing. Desperately Sandrine leant out and gestured at Lucie to go. Lucie’s eyes widened when she saw her and she shook her head, but Sandrine insisted. Lucie hesitated for a second or two more, then slipped away down the path towards the rue des Anglais.

‘Hey, come back here! Salope! ’

The drunk started to hurl abuse. Sandrine kept glancing up to the walls, praying the soldiers would not turn and see the man, hear him. She realised she was holding her breath, counting the seconds.

She pressed herself further back against the wall, the rough edges of the stone sticking into her back, until the noise died away. Finally, when she thought it was safe, she ventured out. She ran to the bushes to retrieve her shoes, then across the open ground, with the heels in her hands, into the cover of the trees.

Now all she had to do was return to rue Longue, change back into her other clothes, leave the pipe and fuse, and get to the Jardin du Calvaire to meet Raoul.

In her anxiety to get away, Sandrine didn’t notice the red glow of the tip of a cigarette in the shadows beneath the stone steps until a hand shot out and grabbed her arm.

‘My lucky day,’ said the same voice, though now it was stiff with anger. Before Sandrine could stop him, the drunk had shoved her forward into the wall and twisted her arm up behind her back. She forced herself not to cry out. He gave a savage jerk upwards.

‘That salope, all the chat. All I wanted was a kiss, but no.’ His voice was ugly with frustration now. He pushed her hard in the small of her back. ‘But now here you are.’

He was half leaning against her, he was so unstable, but the drink hadn’t robbed him of his strength. Sandrine didn’t dare cry out. She was more terrified of the soldiers hearing. The patrols on the wall, going backwards and forwards, it would only take one man to look down and see them. Come to investigate.

Then below, at the bottom of the slope, she saw a black Citroën slowing down and pulling in beside the church. A Gestapo car. Any moment, they would look up and see the two of them locked in this grotesque dance. Sandrine started to struggle, trying to pull herself free. The man hit her hard, on the side of the head.

‘Keep still,’ he threatened. ‘I’m warning you.’

Desperate now, Sandrine knew it was her last chance. It was a gamble, but she couldn’t see what else to do. She screamed. As she’d hoped, the man clamped his hand over her mouth and she bit down on his filthy fingers as hard as she could.

‘Bitch,’ he yelled.

He grabbed for her hair, but Sandrine was too quick for him. She ducked out of his grasp and ran, away down the steps and on to the path.

Behind her, she heard a whistle blow. Then the sound of boots on the cobbled stones and the beginnings of an argument. In the street below, windows were opened, a door.

The Gestapo shouted at the man to put his hands up. She heard the confused response, his bravado collapsing into self-pity.

‘Fumiste! Idiot! ’ the drunk protested. ‘I’ve not done anything.’

Sandrine didn’t turn around, just kept running. Her bare feet were being cut on the stones and the dry grass, her breath burnt in her chest, but she didn’t let up. Through the fields and heading down to the river. She heard the screech of tyres.

Had they seen her? Were they following her?

From her summer of helping with the vendanges, Sandrine knew the farms to the south of the Cité walls. There was a way out along the road. She ran until she reached the wooden gate into the first of the fields of vines. She stumbled over, then through the rows of grapes, crouched down and struggling to keep her footing on the uneven earth. At the bottom of the field, the gate had rolls of barbed wire over the top, to keep thieves out. At her back, she thought the siren was getting closer.

She pushed herself on, her muscles as taut as piano wire, the blood pumping in her ears. Ahead on the Pont Vieux, she saw the vert-de-gris of the Wehrmacht patrol, but there was no sign of the black Citroën. She couldn’t possibly wade across the Aude in broad daylight. She dropped the explosive into the water and decided she’d have to brazen it out. Hope that the pass would still be good.

She straightened her skirts, pushed her dirty feet back into the high heels, and walked on to the bridge towards the checkpoint. She held her breath, expecting them to notice her high colour or that she was carrying no basket or bag, but they didn’t. They waved her through like before.

Weak with relief, Sandrine walked over the Pont Vieux, forcing herself not to break into a run. Only a few steps further, a few steps further, one more checkpoint, and she would be back in the Bastide. Then, behind her, she heard the siren, followed by shouting.

‘Halten Sie! ’

Sandrine blocked out the voices. Then again, in French this time. ‘Stop or we’ll shoot!’

She didn’t turn round, praying they weren’t speaking to her. Why would they be? But, seconds later, she heard the rattle of a semi-automatic, fired into the air as a warning, then the same order shouted once again.

‘Stop!’

Sandrine started to run. It was bright and the soldiers had a clear view of her, but she was banking on the fact that she knew the town better than they did. She ran past the tiny chapel, sharp right past the hospital, then swerved right again into the rue des Calquières, through the dark arched tunnel beneath the Pont Neuf and down on to the riverbank.

She could hear them on the bridge, shouting instructions in German to one another, as she continued to run. She knew her legs wouldn’t hold her for much longer. Here, on this forgotten stretch of river opposite the Andrieu distillery, there were several gaps where a person might hide, fashioned by the passing of time where the river had worked away the stones. Unless they struck lucky, she didn’t believe they would find her.

Sandrine pushed back the nettles and crawled inside backwards, feeling the sharp sting on her skin. Once inside, she forced herself to rearrange the weeds that had grown high around the opening, so it didn’t look like they’d been disturbed. Her hands roared in complaint.

The hollow stank of urine and rubbish, blown in by the prevailing wind. The space was barely big enough for her to sit down, but it gave her a good view of the Pont Vieux. Two soldiers were still standing on the bridge. And she could see an officer pointing and shouting. In the street above the riverbank, already she could hear the hammering on doors and the demands to be let in.

Had Lucie been caught?

Sandrine closed her eyes, regretting that she had brought trouble down on other people’s heads. She waited and watched, her heart thumping. Sweat pooled between her breasts and at the back of her knees and the hollow of her throat, and she understood, in a single moment, how Marianne could have reached the end of her strength.

Sandrine wasn’t sure how much longer she would be able to carry on either. If she got out of this, did she have what was required to go on fighting?

Chapter 126

‘What do you mean?’ Lucie said, holding her son tightly to her.

Jean-Jacques’ eyes were wide because of the urgent whispered conversation of the two women, but he sat quietly in his mother’s arms.

Lucie had quickly made her way back to Madame Peyre’s house from the Cité. At first she’d felt exhilarated that they’d pulled it off. She understood why Sandrine and the others had been prepared to take such risks. But the closer she got to home, the more her nerves started to play up. Her stomach was now in knots. What if she’d been seen? What if Milice were on their way here now? What if Sandrine had been caught?

Then she’d found Jeanne waiting for her on the doorstep.

‘What do you mean?’ Lucie repeated.

‘He was arrested early this afternoon.’

‘Your husband?’ Lucie said, still muddled by what Jeanne was trying to tell her.

‘No, not Jean-Marc. My father-in-law. A neighbour was in boulevard Barbès and saw it happen. Came to tell me.’

‘Monsieur Giraud? But why would they arrest him?’

‘I don’t know. He was keeping an eye on the clinic. My husband had to cancel all his operations to go . . .’ she hesitated, ‘out of town.’ She shook her head, trying to get her fears under control. ‘It might be that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Either way, I’ve got to see if I can find him. His heart’s not strong, he’s . . .’

Lucie put her hand on Jeanne’s arm. ‘I’m sure they won’t mistreat him. He’s an old man.’

‘That means nothing now,’ Jeanne said bitterly. She ruffled Jean-Jacques’ hair. ‘He’s been very good. His throat doesn’t seem to be hurting too much, but . . .’ She met Lucie’s eye. ‘I don’t think my husband will be able to do the operation at the moment. Not now.’

Lucie met her gaze. ‘I understand. Thank you for bringing him all the way across town.’

Jeanne turned to go, then stopped. ‘We don’t know each other very well. To tell you the truth, I was surprised that you . . . ’ She broke off. ‘I don’t know what you were doing today, but you’re a friend of Sandrine and Marianne’s, so I can imagine. Something’s happening today in Carcassonne. My father-in-law’s arrest is just part of it. If I were you, I’d get out while you still can. Take Jean-Jacques and go as far away as possible.’

Lucie stared at the young woman, her face taut with fear and distress, and she nodded.

‘I intend to, don’t worry.’

‘Good. And good luck.’

‘To you too. Thank you again, Jeanne. I’m sure your father-in-law will be all right. Jean-Marc too.’

Jeanne didn’t answer, just turned and left. For a moment Lucie stood, her son in her arms, watching her go. She allowed her thoughts to go to Max. There were rumours circulating in the town that the very last prisoners were being transported from Le Vernet. She couldn’t bear to think of it being true. That Max might have survived all this time, only to be deported now. She felt the familiar tightening of her throat. When she got to Coustaussa, at least she could see if Eloise or Geneviève had heard anything.

Lucie gave an impatient shake of her head, knowing she couldn’t afford to waste any time thinking. Sandrine and Raoul had wanted her to go with them to Coustaussa. She had been in two minds, but today she’d realised she wanted to be with the others. And although she felt bad about leaving Madame Peyre, the thought of seeing Marieta and Liesl again made her smile. J-J’s other adopted gran’mere and his aunt. It would be lovely for him.

Quickly, Lucie unlocked the door and went inside.

‘You play with this, J-J,’ she said, putting the little boy in the playpen in the centre of the room and handing him a wooden truck. ‘Be good for Mama.’

Lucie rushed into the bedroom and changed her clothes, rolling the dress she’d worn to go to and from rue Longue into a ball and pushing it to the back of the wardrobe. She dressed in a plain shirt and skirt, comfortable shoes, then packed a change of clothes for her son. She couldn’t look as if she was going away. The only thing she took of her own was the brooch Max had given her the first time they went dancing at the Terminus. For a moment she allowed herself to remember, the look on his face as he produced the paper-and-ribbon package, his smile as he pinned the brooch to her coat. She went back to the wardrobe. The blue twill was far too heavy for the season, but suddenly she couldn’t bring herself to leave it behind. She fastened the brooch on the left lapel, shrugged her arms into the sleeves, then went back into the main room.

She wished she could leave a note for Madame Peyre, telling her what she was doing, but she knew it would be safer for them both not to give any indication of where she’d gone. Even that they had gone.

‘Not for long,’ she murmured, wondering if that was true.

The pram was in the hallway. Lucie deliberated for a moment. It would be easier not to carry Jean-Jacques all the way through the Bastide to the Jardin du Calvaire, but it would be a nuisance after that. And a pram left abandoned in the street would be sure to attract attention.

‘Come on, my little man, up we come,’ Lucie said, picking up her son. ‘Shall we go on an adventure?’

Sandrine heard the bells of Saint-Gimer strike six, followed moments later by the bells of the Minimes convent in rue Trivalle. The beating of her heart marked the passing time, the stillness punctured by the occasional splash of a fish in the shallows, a rare survivor in the plundered river, a distant Wehrmacht truck or the engine of a Milice vehicle prowling through the streets of the Bastide.

She couldn’t hear the soldiers any more, though she knew they wouldn’t give up. She had a restricted view of the bridge, but none of them seemed to have come back.

Sandrine tried to imagine where Raoul might be now. Because she had dismantled the device earlier than they’d agreed, he wouldn’t be worried yet. He wouldn’t expect her until after it was dark. He’d be holed up somewhere, waiting for dusk. Safe.

But she wished she knew if Lucie had made it back all right. That was often the worst part of it, not fear for oneself but for those one loved. In the early days, Sandrine had thought she’d always know if something bad had happened. That she would feel if any one of them – Marianne, Suzanne or Lucie, Liesl, Geneviève or Eloise – was in trouble. She’d learnt from experience that it wasn’t the case. Sometimes she assumed the worst, felt the violent tug in the gut, the twist in the chest. Sometimes it was justified, sometimes it was not. In the case of Monsieur Baillard, for example, she could not accept he was gone. After two years with no news, Sandrine knew it was stupid to cling to the slim hope that he was alive. And yet she felt his presence. Faint, but there all the same.

She tried to change position, to stretch out the stiffness in her cramped arms and legs, as the minutes ticked slowly on. The light of the end of the afternoon gradually gave way to the white of early evening. Just after the bells had struck seven, she heard – then saw – a convoy of military vehicles drive on to the bridge. Orders were shouted in German first, then repeated in French, as three trucks of Gestapo and Milice travelled from the Bastide to the Cité. A little later, just after the quarter-hour had struck, a black armoured Waffen-SS staff car went by with its hood closed.

Was Authié in it? Was the dinner genuine after all? Perhaps it wasn’t a trap and they’d made a dreadful mistake in not going through with the attack tonight. Missed the best opportunity they would have.

The vehicles cleared the bridge and the barriers came down again. Silence returned to the river. Sandrine stayed hidden, watching the guard patrol the section between the two checkpoints.

The light turned from white to the purple of dusk then, gradually, to black. The bells of Saint-Gimer were striking nine now. Sandrine’s sharp ears picked up another sound. This time, the sweet sound of a woman’s voice, singing an old Occitan lullaby.

Bona nuèit, bona nuèit . . .

Braves amics, pica mièja-nuèit

Cal finir velhada . . .

It was a song Marieta used to sing to her when she was a baby, always restless, always hard to get off to sleep. Sandrine felt tears prick in her eyes. She didn’t brush them away, but mouthed along with the words, the familiar words of childhood, as the lilting melody floated out over the river.

Cantem pas mai . . .

Anem tots al leìt

An old song, a song of the mountains to give comfort to all those who could not sleep, for those who were weary and wakeful.

Raoul stared at Lucie.

‘It’s been six hours since you came down from the Cité. Something’s gone wrong. Something must have happened.’

Night had fallen over the Jardin du Calvaire. The stone apostles were sleeping in the Garden of Gethsemane, their shapes providing cover for Raoul, Lucie and Robert Bonnet. Lucie was rocking Jean-Jacques in her arms to keep him from waking.

‘Something must have gone wrong,’ he said.

‘Nothing went wrong,’ Lucie repeated. ‘I saw her. She came out of the tower. There was no alarm sounded. Just a drunk. Sandrine waved at me to go, so I did.’

‘We don’t even know if she made it back to rue Longue,’ Raoul said, running his hands through his hair.

‘No, we don’t,’ Lucie said patiently. ‘But there’s no reason to assume she didn’t.’

‘Then why’s she not here?’

‘She’ll be here,’ Lucie said, though the strain was starting to show in her voice too.

‘We can’t wait very much longer,’ Bonnet said. ‘We’ll be stopped.’

‘I’m not leaving without her,’ Raoul said.

Bonnet shook his head. ‘You know the system, Pelletier.’

The ‘Citadel’ network followed the same rules as every other group. If someone was more than half an hour late, the assumption was either the location had been discovered or it wasn’t safe enough to keep the rendezvous, or that the contact had been arrested. At that point, their responsibility became to save themselves and to warn the others.

‘This is different,’ Raoul said.

‘Sandrine won’t expect us to wait,’ Bonnet insisted. ‘She’ll rely on us to do the right thing. Expect you to have faith enough in her to know she’s capable of looking after herself.’

‘What if Authié found her?’

‘Everything went well, Raoul,’ Lucie repeated. ‘There was no sign of Major Authié at all.’

‘I’m not leaving Carcassonne without her. Bonnet, will you take Lucie to the handover instead of us, then come back in the morning? I know it’s a lot to ask, but you must see I can’t go. I can’t leave her.’

‘I don’t know,’ Bonnet said, shaking his head again.

They both knew the odds on them being caught were much higher if Bonnet left and then came back to the same rendezvous.

‘Please,’ Raoul pleaded. ‘This is no place for Jean-Jacques, but I can’t go. It’s only right. After all she’s done.’

Robert held his gaze for a moment longer, then he nodded. ‘All right. But stay here. If you’re not here when I come back, I’ll not be able to do anything.’

Raoul’s shoulders slumped with relief. ‘Thanks, Bonnet.’

Lucie put her hand on his arm. ‘We’ll see you in Coustaussa. Don’t be too long, do you hear?’

Time had changed its shape. The past and the future both seemed to coexist with the strange and fragile present. Sandrine felt the presence of spirits all around her now, friendly ghosts who held out their hands and whispered of their lives, and shared their secrets. They connected her to all those who had walked the streets of Carcassonne before and all those who would come after her.

Sandrine could see a cloud of midges hovering over the surface of the water. Trapped in the confined space, with nothing to drink or eat, she had lost track of how long she had been hiding. She had stopped counting the tolling of the bells.

The great sweeping spotlights from the Cité sent their beams shining out of the quartier Trivalle and the quartier Barbacane, but all was quiet. The occasional slamming of a car door, or an engine, but nothing more. Sandrine prayed Raoul would have gone. That he would do the right thing and leave without her, though the thought choked her.

Finally, night fell. The sound of trucks coming back over the bridge, the heavy thrumming of the engine of a large car. Sandrine felt a strange peace come over her. An image slipped softly into her head, indistinct, an impression, almost a memory. A girl in a long red cape, the hem embroidered with an intricate green and blue pattern of squares and diamonds, interspersed with tiny yellow flowers. No, not flowers, but stars. Seven stars. A girl with a gentle yet forceful expression.

And between the two Carcassonnes, as it always had, lay the dark and silent river. A sea of glass.

Chapter 127

Laval stared impassively at Authié, carefully hiding his satisfaction at being proved right. He wasn’t sure how Authié would react at having made the wrong decision. Schiffner had already made his displeasure clear at the waste of resources.

‘Still no sign of her?’ Authié demanded.

‘We don’t know who it was,’ Laval said. ‘The report was only that a woman and a man were seen on the slopes above rue Petite Côte de la Cité. When the Gestapo ordered them to stop, the girl ran off.’

‘The man?’

‘Not Pelletier,’ Laval said. ‘A drunk, wandered into the restricted area accidentally – so he claims. He’s in custody, but he doesn’t know anything.’

Authié looked down at the Wehrmacht report. ‘It says here she crossed the Pont Vieux. Why the hell did they let her through?’

‘The sentries weren’t aware there was a problem at that stage, sir,’ Laval said. ‘By the time they were, she’d got away. The Wehrmacht did a house-to-house in the vicinity but didn’t find her. Nobody claimed to have seen her.’

Authié tapped the paper again. ‘It says here that two women were seen in the vicinity of the rue des Anglais at four thirty. A good hour before this other incident. Why were we not immediately told?’

‘They were working girls. It was only when the captain arrived in the Cité that he realised we were looking out for women – a woman – and decided to radio the information through.’

‘That was eight hours ago, Laval,’ Authié said.

Laval said nothing. The report had come to him and he had decided not to put it immediately in front of Authié. He didn’t share his superior’s complete conviction that either the device – or the decoy – had necessarily been set by Sandrine Vidal. But he agreed with Authié that questioning her about the Codex was the obvious place to start. By keeping the Wehrmacht report from him for a few hours, he had hoped to get a head start on his commanding officer. But by the time Laval arrived in the Cité, there was no sign of the girls matching the description given by the Wehrmacht soldiers. The dinner had gone ahead, but for the guards, the evening had been spent in dull inactivity: watching both the Tour de la Justice and the Tour de Grand Burlas, waiting for an attack on the hotel that neither Laval nor, increasingly, Authié believed would take place.

Laval met his gaze. ‘I think we should go to the house in the rue du Palais now,’ he said.

Authié’s face grew white. ‘Where’s Schiffner?’ he demanded, ignoring Laval’s comment.

‘He returned to headquarters. To file his report.’

Authié frowned. ‘Do you have the men you need?’

Laval nodded. ‘Yes, sir. There have been two miliciens on duty in the Fournier house for the past twenty-four hours, round the clock.’

‘Has anyone gone in or out?’

‘No.’ He paused, then decided to push Authié a little further. ‘I think it’s likely the women have already left.’

‘Do you?’ snapped Authié. ‘Based on what information?’

Laval didn’t say anything.

‘Precisely,’ Authié said. ‘We don’t know one way or the other.’ He scribbled a note, then thrust it at Laval. ‘This is what you need.’

Laval looked down at the requisition slip. ‘Five o’clock? With respect, sir, why wait?’

Authié stood up and leant forward on his desk. ‘Because if – as you have pointed out, Laval – there’s no one there, two hours won’t make any difference. Out of courtesy I need to inform Schiffner personally what I am going to do. Give him due warning.’ He pointed his finger at Laval. ‘And it gives you the time to fetch the information about Audric Baillard.’ He glanced at his deputy. ‘I assume you have it?’

Laval had not found the time to return to the Commissariat and he doubted there would be anyone in the archives now to help him get the files out, but he knew better than to admit it.

‘I’ll bring it as soon as I can, sir.’

Authié met his gaze. ‘I’ll be waiting.’

Raoul worked his way from bar to bar. The Bastide was crawling with police and soldiers. Gestapo in the centre, the Milice a little further out, guards on every corner, but he avoided being stopped.

No one had heard anything about a woman being arrested in the Cité, although there had been two round-ups earlier in the day. Old men mostly, no one was sure what was going on. There was talk about houses being raided in the quartier Trivalle late afternoon and door-to-door searches in the area around the hospital, but nothing seemed to have been found. Reports of Wehrmacht trucks going in and out of the Cité, but again no suggestion that anyone had been arrested during the night.

In the Café Saillan, Raoul overheard two men talking about a woman who’d been found decomposed in her apartment. It had taken him a moment to realise that they were talking about his mother. The rush of relief that the message had got through to the undertaker was followed by a sharp stab of grief. Then, guilt.

Raoul returned to the Jardin du Calvaire to find Robert Bonnet waiting for him. Lucie and Jean-Jacques had been safely handed over in Roullens. Most of the Faïta Maquis had gone south, but Ramón – who’d given Raoul a place to hide when he fled Carcassonne after the Bastille Day demonstration in July 1942 – was still there and was prepared to help. He was to get them to Cépie, just north of Limoux. Provided Suzanne and Marianne had arrived in Coustaussa as planned and set things up all right, someone else would be waiting in Limoux to take Lucie and her son on the last part of the journey.

‘Ran into trouble coming back,’ Robert said. ‘A boulangerie van was “borrowed” to intercept a convoy of ammunition being transported from the Wehrmacht depot to the Domaine de Baudrigues. The Germans are storing all their heavy ammunition there, rather than waiting for supplies from Montazels.’

‘I’d heard that.’

Bonnet sighed. ‘Someone had talked. The Gestapo were waiting for them.’

‘Any connection with us?’ Raoul said. ‘With Citadel, I mean?’

‘No, but two dead and four arrested,’ Bonnet said.

Raoul shook his head. ‘Do we know how they were tipped off?’

‘Not yet,’ Bonnet said. He paused, then added: ‘Any word about Sandrine?’

‘No.’

‘You’ve tried all the usual places?’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you want to do?’

Raoul took a deep breath. ‘Will Yvette be at work tonight? I tried the bar in Quai Riquet earlier, but she wasn’t there.’

‘Doesn’t finish until later on Saturday mornings,’ Bonnet said. ‘Midnight until six.’

‘Can you get a message to her to come to the bar when she gets off shift? In case she’s heard anything.’

‘I’m sure there’s nothing to hear,’ Bonnet said, ‘but I’ll do my best.’ He met Raoul’s gaze. ‘Don’t go back to the rue du Palais, Pelletier. Sandrine will find us or get a message to us.’

‘I can’t rest until I know,’ Raoul said.

‘I know, but trust her. She’s a clever girl.’

Raoul nodded, but he could see from the look in Bonnet’s eyes that he was worried too.

Chapter 128

Sandrine waited until it was completely dark before emerging from her hiding place beneath the bridge. She was stiff and her calves and ankles were covered in red marks from the stinging nettles, but she was too numb to be aware of any pain. She couldn’t bear to think of how Raoul might be feeling. She remembered, now, he had been intending to try to see his mother. She hoped it hadn’t been upsetting. She prayed that he was safe, not worrying about her too much, and she felt even more guilty than before about involving Lucie.

She had to decide what to do next. The drunk was the worst piece of luck she could have had, drawing the Gestapo’s attention. She was so tired she couldn’t think straight. Sandrine looked down at the cheap green dress, now smeared with dust and debris from the riverbank. It was gaudy and distinctive, and she’d no doubt her description had been circulated by now. She needed a change of clothes at the very least, otherwise her chances of getting away from Carcassonne were even slighter.

She thought of where she might go. She wasn’t far from the Giraud house in the rue de la Gaffe, but it would be madness to go back over to the quartier Trivalle. She couldn’t go to Madame Peyre’s for fear of putting Lucie in danger. Was there anywhere else?

In the end, she couldn’t think of anything other than to go home. Her feet seemed to be taking her there of their own volition. It was stupid, so she reasoned the Gestapo, or Milice – whoever Authié was working for – would never think she’d go back to the rue du Palais. Sandrine felt incapable of coming up with an alternative plan. She felt dizzy with exhaustion, defeated by the long days and nights that had led up to this moment. And she was so close now. She could go there, fetch fresh clothes, then be gone before it got light. She wouldn’t be putting anyone else in danger. After that, all she had to do was work out how to get safely to Coustaussa to join the others.

Ten minutes later, she was walking quickly up the rue de Strasbourg and through the gate into their back garden. The house was dark, she could see nothing unusual, no signs that anyone had been there. She rested her hand for an instant against the trunk of the fig tree as if, by touching something solid, she would anchor herself. But she felt only sadness at the loss of her old life. The ground was sticky with windfalls. Sandrine was pleased Marieta couldn’t see how she and Marianne had let the garden run wild.

For a moment, she pictured herself sitting peacefully on the old white wrought-iron furniture. Reading a book or sipping a glass of Marieta’s home-made lemonade. She shook her head. Such nostalgic thoughts were no use to her now.

Keeping close to the periphery of the courtyard, Sandrine made her way to the stone steps. Taking the key from beneath the glass jar on the window ledge, she opened the back door and slowly walked in, locking it again after her. She held her breath, listening to the silence, trying to distinguish sounds of other people in the house. Intruders.

She let out a long sigh. The house was empty, she could feel it. Just her and friendly ghosts, the memories of all of them held in the waiting air. In the gloomy kitchen, she could see nothing had been touched since she and Lucie had left. Their crockery washed and draining by the sink. The remains of a loaf on the wooden board beneath the cloth.

Using her hands to guide herself in the dark house, Sandrine walked into the corridor, remembering all the people who had passed through in the early years of the war. The Dutch résistants and German anti-fascists.

On she went through the silent house. Her father’s study, where the four Belgian soldiers, fighting with the Secret Army, had camped out for a week, waiting to be taken to the house of Abbé Gau prior to the long journey south and out of France, via the Roc Blanc escape route. Then Belcaire or Rouze – or Ax-les-Thermes, where Monsieur Baillard had last been seen – over the Pyrenees to Andorra and Spain.

Her fingers found a box of John Bull safety matches on the desk, left behind, she presumed, by the one British airman who had found his way to the rue du Palais. They regularly cleared the house of any potentially incriminating objects and she was amazed it had survived for so long. She picked it up and slipped it into her pocket, recalling the Englishman’s open expression and his inability to speak even the most basic French. They had communicated in sign language, but his gratitude for the risks they were taking on his behalf, he had taken great pains to make clear. When he’d left, he had kissed her hand and put his own to his chest. Sandrine had never forgotten it. She hoped the courteous young man had survived.

At the foot of the stairs, she stopped. The moon was shining through the window, illuminating the photographs on the wall. Sandrine now realised what had been niggling in her mind. Lucie had helped her destroy the few things that could give a clue as to where they’d gone. All the official documents had been taken to safety a long time ago – deeds and bills of sale – but there were a handful of letters with the Coustaussa address on them. They’d got rid of everything except the pictures of the capitelles and the ruined castle. It would take no time at all to identify the village.

Sandrine hesitated. The photos were precious. Her mother had taken them and she didn’t want to destroy them. It felt as if she was doing Authié’s work for him. She hesitated a moment more, then, with quick, sad fingers, she took them down from the wall and carried them to the sink in the kitchen. She eased each black and white photograph out and, with a silent apology to her mother, put the match to them.

She watched the paper curl and scorch, then flare and burn black, the orange glow too bright in the dark kitchen. The pipes thumped as she turned on the taps to damp the heat. Then she wrapped the soggy ash in a tea towel and carried it down to the cellar for the mice to find. The frames she hid behind the empty wine racks.

Aware of the time passing, Sandrine went upstairs again. Passed the empty spaces on the wall, dust marking their silhouette, telling herself she should hurry. She ran her hand over the warm wood of the un-polished banister, remembering the girl she had been. An innocent time, better times.

She glanced up at the window on the landing. The silver rays of the moon sent the diamonds of coloured light sparkling on to the stairs. She was taking too long, she was too slow, she knew it, but the nostalgia for her lost life was too strong to resist.

She went past Marianne’s room, past her father’s room – where first Liesl, then Suzanne had slept – and pushed open her own bedroom door. She ran her hand along the high back of the Chinese chaise, remembering all the times Marianne had sat herself down there to dispense advice, twilight tête-à-têtes and midnight confidences. Her sheets still rumpled from where she and Raoul had lain side by side.

Sandrine took a plain skirt from the wardrobe and an unremarkable shirt, nothing too fancy. She hesitated, then pulled on her old tartan woollen socks to cover the red bites and nettle stings on her legs. She sat down on the bed to put on her shoes, a pair of Marianne’s old teaching shoes. The soles were worn through and she had lined them with cardboard. They’d do all right for now.

She realised that her mood was in part because of the lack of sleep, the endless disabling isolation of fear. But also because it was finally hitting her that this really was the last time she would be in the house, perhaps ever. She and Marianne had said as much, but she hadn’t really taken it in. And when Raoul was here, then she and Lucie were rushing to clear everything, activity had stopped her from thinking.

Now, in this silent and private moment, she felt overwhelmed with grief. She looked up at the familiar damp patch on the ceiling above her bed, a legacy of that bitter winter of 1942, when the pipes all froze and the guttering cracked. Then, with the thaw in the spring, the rain had come dripping through.

She smiled ruefully. Suzanne had promised to fix it. Raoul had offered to fix it, but no one had. Sandrine felt so utterly exhausted. She knew it was a mistake to sit down at all, but she couldn’t drag her eyes away from the tear-shaped stain. She smiled. Likely as not, the patch would still need fixing by the time Jean-Jacques was grown up and old enough to do it. Or even a child of her own. She put her hand on her stomach, thinking of how they had made love when Raoul arrived on Sunday night, how it had felt different. She didn’t feel anything had changed, but all the same, she couldn’t help herself wondering.

The words of the lullaby came back to her. A mother singing to her baby? Bona nuèit, bona nuèit. A child of their own, a son or a daughter, Sandrine realised she didn’t care. Would Raoul prefer a son first? She didn’t think so.

For a few stolen moments more, she sat quietly in her childhood room. Forgetting who she was, what she was supposed to be doing, dreaming in the darkness instead of what might have been.

Then, abrupt and violent, the sound she’d imagined so many times. The hammering on the door, the rough voices, the shouting.

‘Police. Polizei! ’

Sandrine jolted awake. Bolt upright, her eyes wide open, her right hand stretched out as if she was trying to grasp something. For a moment she was neither asleep nor awake, as if some part of her had been left behind in the dream.

The noise she’d expected every waking minute of every day, every night, for the past two years. She was amazed at how calm she felt, how she seemed to go into action without thinking about it. Muscle memory, anticipation, her arms and limbs moving seemingly independent of her.

In the hall below, now, the sound of wood splintering as jackboots kicked in the front door. An idiot to have let herself drift to sleep, an idiot to have come here at all. Men’s voices in the hall, French and German. The remembered familiar voice of Laval, heard only in snatches, but embedded in her memory like a splinter of glass.

Instinct kicked in. No reason why Raoul would come looking for her here, why anyone would come. She had promised not to come back to the house, why would he disbelieve her? But even so, she quickly scribbled a note, stuffed it into the matchbox and dropped it from the window of the salle de bains, praying the soldiers would not search the garden properly and it might lie undiscovered.

Then she headed upstairs for the attic, hoping she could hide herself. That they might pass by. But a flash of grey, of green. Now the vert-de-gris were storming up the stairs, the blue berets of the Milice trailing behind. Glass smashing, drawers, the tearing of fabric as the search began.

Then, a Gestapo agent grabbing her by the hair, feeling the skin tear on her scalp, being pulled down from the ladder, a second pair of hands around her waist, holding her legs, dragging her to the ground.

Laval’s voice in her ear. ‘C’est fini, maintenant.’

Sandrine felt her arms being dragged up behind her back, handcuffs pinching the skin around her wrists, and she was half carried, half pushed down the stairs to where the car was waiting in the street.

Laval threw her into the back.

‘Where are you taking me?’ she managed to say, struggling to sit upright.

He struck her hard on the side of her head. Stunned, Sandrine fell sideways on the seat, then struggled to right herself.

‘You’ve caused a lot of trouble,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Don’t make it worse for yourself.’

Chapter 129

Raoul knew it was a risk, but it was the only place left to go. Bonnet had told him to stay away – and he and Sandrine had agreed they wouldn’t return to the house – but he didn’t know where else to try.

Sandrine had to be here. Because if she wasn’t, then it meant . . . Raoul couldn’t let himself think about the alternative. By five thirty, he was standing at the corner of the rue de Strasbourg and the rue de Lorraine, trying to see if he could get into the garden without being spotted. Madame Fournier wouldn’t be up this early, but he couldn’t see any sign of Milice or Gestapo watching the house either.

He looked out of place in this quartier. Because of the Feldgendarmerie and the Deuxième Bureau offices in rue Mazagran, many senior Gestapo and Wehrmacht officers had lodgings in these elegant nineteenth-century streets near the Palais de Justice. Sandrine had always felt it kept them secure. This wasn’t the sort of area where safe houses were usually to be found. The Gestapo raids happened in the poorer quarters.

Raoul walked quickly and slipped in through the garden gate, surprised to find it unlocked. The ground beneath his feet was sticky with rotten figs and there were weeds everywhere. He crept up the stone steps and, cupping his hands, peered in through the glass. It was dark inside and he couldn’t see anything at all, though he detected a slight smell of burning. He tried the handle, but the door was locked. He looked for the key under the usual glass jar, but it wasn’t there. He frowned. Then he noticed that the bathroom window on the first floor was open. Not just open, but wide open.

Glancing at Madame Fournier’s windows, and seeing no movement, Raoul scaled the railings and stepped across on to the wide window ledge on the ground floor. He still couldn’t see in. He jumped back down, landing in a pile of twigs and dried leaves, blown into the corner of the courtyard last autumn and never swept up. He bent down. In amongst the browns and greens was a red and black matchbox. English brand. It was clean and dry. It certainly hadn’t been there all winter.

His heart beating fast, Raoul slid open the box. Inside, three unspent matches and a small piece of paper. He unfolded the paper and recognised Sandrine’s handwriting: SD – 5 A.M.

‘No, no, no, no.’

Raoul felt as if he’d been punched in the chest. His heart hammered against his ribs, his breath caught in his throat. SD stood for Sicherheitdienst, the Gestapo. The note told him they’d come for her at five o’clock.

He wanted to scream, to rip the sky in two or tear down the house with his bare hands. He screwed the paper in his fist, tighter, forcing all the fury, the terror out through his fingers, into his nails, into the palm of his hand until he drew blood.

Little by little, he controlled the rage thundering through his brain. He looked at his watch. Nearly six. Sandrine was writing a note for him an hour ago. She was alive an hour ago.

Raoul shook his head, he couldn’t think like that. Of course she was alive. He took a match from the box and burned the note. He had to think. Concentrate. The Gestapo would have taken her either to the villa on the route de Toulouse or to the Caserne Laperrine.

One hour ago. If he’d come earlier, he could have stopped them.

Raoul forced himself not to think about what might be happening. Many partisans had been detained in the route de Toulouse and had suffered at the hands of the Gestapo interrogators. It was impossible to get in, impossible to get anyone out. There had been attempts in the past, none successful.

It didn’t matter. It was Sandrine. Wherever she was, he would find her and get her out. Or die trying, a voice in his head whispered.

Raoul ignored it. He ran back through the courtyard and into the street, heading once again for the Quai Riquet.

Chapter 130

‘Where is it?’ Laval said again.

Sandrine was no longer aware of the boundaries of her own body, only that everything was singing with pain. Her muscles were stretched to their limits and her head was throbbing.

She knew she hadn’t been here long. She wasn’t quite sure where she was either. Not far. One of the soldiers had put a hood over her head before they dragged her out of the car, then across a hard surface and into a building. But before she went inside, she thought she heard the shriek of a train on the tracks and a whistle, so she guessed she had been brought to the Gestapo headquarters on the route de Toulouse, which backed on to the railway.

She had been left alone for a while, hooded and strapped to the chair. It was hard to breathe beneath the heavy fabric and the air in the room was fetid. She’d felt she was suffocating.

Then Laval came back and started to question her. And with each question unanswered came pain. His hand across her face, once his fist into her stomach, a boot hard against her shin bone, she never knew where the next assault would come. And, always, the threat of something much worse.

‘Where is the Codex hidden? Who has it?’

‘I don’t know.’

She tried to twist away, but her arms were tied behind her back. Instinctively she kicked out at him and he hit her, hard, on the side of her ankle with something. A rod, a stick. For the first time, she screamed.

‘You will tell me what I want to know in the end,’ he said. ‘Why not save us all a lot of trouble?’

‘I don’t know where the Codex is,’ she said again, bracing herself for another blow. ‘I don’t know why you’re asking me about it.’

‘Because you sent us on a wild goose chase, didn’t you?’ he said, his mouth close to her ear. ‘So I know you are involved, you see.’

Sandrine tried to stay inside her head, a quiet and still place where she was safe and Laval couldn’t reach her. So far she had said nothing, nothing at all. She couldn’t think of anything but how to survive the next blow, then the next. She thought of Jean Moulin tortured to death by Hauptsturmführer Barbie in Lyon and the countless others who never talked, never betrayed their comrades. She didn’t know how much she could stand, but she would do her best to be as strong as them. Survive the next blow, then the next.

‘Tell me,’ he shouted with frustration.

Although she knew it would be worse for her in the long run, his anger gave her a little spark of courage. Her moment of triumph was short-lived. An iron grip pulling her to her feet, being marched, pushed, driven across the room. She felt even more vulnerable away from the chair. She didn’t know how big the room was or where she was being taken, and she tried to struggle free.

Then a hand – Laval’s hand – on the back of her neck, pushing her to her knees. A shudder of horror went through her, and then her face was plunged forward into ice-cold water. She felt the cloth sodden around her mouth, her nostrils, blocking the water and trapping the air, and she began to struggle. Her blood was roaring in her head, pounding as if her vessels would burst, her lungs shouting against the lack of oxygen.

She kicked harder, again, thought she heard someone laughing as her bare feet skeetered and slipped and thrashed on the wet floor. Then, just as she thought she would pass out, they pulled her up.

‘Where is it?’

‘I don’t know,’ she gasped.

This time she was ready for it. As she was pitched head-first into the stinking water, Sandrine held her breath. She told herself she was swimming in the Aude at Rennes-les-Bains, diving down to the bottom of the muddy water to fish for stones, for jewels hidden in the riverbed. She and Geneviève had spent hours each summer when they were children playing games in the water. Weighting themselves down, trying to stay beneath the surface for as long as possible.

When the lack of oxygen started thundering in her head, her lungs screaming for air, Sandrine made herself imagine she was floating slowly up through the beautiful green. The bright Midi sky, blue, high above. Told herself she didn’t want to wake up. That she could seal her silence by dying.

He left her under longer this time. When they eventually pulled her out, she slipped from their wet hands and smashed her head on the tiles. For an instant, Sandrine lay there and wondered if she might go to sleep. She felt pain reverberating all down her side, where bruises and wounds were in contact with the floor, but she hadn’t the strength to shift position.

How long had she been here?’

They had come for her at five o’clock, not quite light. Was it day now? Night? It felt endless but might have been only minutes. She wondered if anyone else was being held here. She tried to push the names from her head, un-remember them so that they were buried too deep to be excavated. Tried not to think about Raoul or Robert, Lucie or Monsieur Baillard.

Then she was being dragged to her feet and someone – Laval again – seized her wet blouse and pulled hard, causing her to stagger forward into him. Someone laughed. She felt the material rip and the sound of the buttons bouncing lightly on the floor. He dropped her back on to the chair.

‘Who helped you with the forgery?’ Laval was saying. ‘Very good, by the way, you had us all convinced.’ He put his hand around her neck, resting it gently at first, then beginning to tighten his grip.

‘All I’m asking is where the Codex is now. You tell me, then this stops. You see? This will stop.’

‘I don’t know anything,’ she managed to say.

Suddenly there was a shuffling of feet and the sound of the door being flung back against its frame. Laval’s hand dropped from her throat and she felt him step away. Felt other hands dragging her to her feet. Even in her disorientated state, Sandrine realised the atmosphere in the room had changed. An angry voice through the ringing in her ears. Then, the hood being untied and taken from her head.

For a moment, Sandrine felt only pleasure at the touch of air on her skin. She closed her eyes and turned her head away from the bare bulb, bright after the darkness of her confinement.

‘Asseyez-vous.’ Sit down.

Although she tried not to give him the satisfaction of reacting, Sandrine flinched at the sound of Authié’s voice. She stood, swaying slightly, held up by the hands of the Gestapo officers standing either side of her, then she was being pushed down on to the chair, her arms dragged behind her again and secured.

The swelling above her right eye was pushing her lid closed, making it hard to see properly.

‘Mademoiselle Vidal,’ he said.

Sandrine forced herself to raise her head, determined to look him in the eye, but the motion made her feel sick. Despite everything she had endured at Laval’s hands, she feared Authié more, though he had never laid a finger on her. Sweat pooled in the small of her bruised back, between her breasts; she could smell it coming off her skin, sour, feral.

‘Major Authié,’ she said. ‘Lieutenant Laval has been asking me questions. I don’t know why. I don’t know what he wants to know.’ She realised she was rambling, but hoped she might be able to persuade him of her ignorance despite having failed to convince Laval. ‘I don’t know what he wants,’ she said again.

Authié walked round behind her, standing so close that she could smell aftershave, soap and tobacco, in sharp contrast to the smell of blood and wet material. Sandrine felt her body shrink into itself, as if there were thousands of tiny wires pulling at her skin. Furious that she was allowing him to affect her so utterly, she forced her chin up, ignoring the pain thudding in her neck and her jaw.

He dropped his hands on to her shoulders. Sandrine recoiled from his touch. He dug his fingers deeper into the skin and muscle, increasing the pressure, then let his right hand slide lower, hooking under the thin cotton of her blouse, and lower still.

‘No,’ she said quickly.

‘You flatter yourself,’ he said. ‘Lieutenant Laval informs me you have been less than helpful.’

‘He cannot accept I don’t have the answers he wants.’

He leant forward. Sandrine thought he was going to touch her again, but instead he jerked the chair so she was teetering backwards towards the floor. She swallowed a cry, determined not to show any fear in front of him.

‘Come, you can do better than that,’ he said.

‘Please,’ she said, despising the pleading tone in her voice. ‘I don’t know anything.’

‘Please,’ he mimicked. He set the chair roughly back on its legs, sending a jolt of pain snaking the length of her spine. She bit her lip to stop herself crying out.

‘You see, I think you’re lying when you say you don’t know anything, Mademoiselle Vidal – “Sophie”, as I believe you’re known now.’

Sandrine forced herself not to react.

‘I think you knew exactly what you were doing when you told me about the forgery. And that you know where the actual Codex is.’ He leant forward. ‘Do you have it?’ he said, whispering like a lover into her ear. ‘It’s true, isn’t it? You know where it is?’

‘I don’t know about any forgery,’ she said. Every part of her was smarting, battered, damaged, but her mind felt suddenly sharp. ‘And my name is Sandrine.’

‘A birth certificate is an easy thing to find,’ Authié laughed. ‘I would have thought you’d be more inventive. But Sophie, Sandrine, it doesn’t matter at the moment. I have all the time in the world,’ he said. ‘I am quite happy to stay here until I get what I want.’

‘You’re talking to the wrong person,’ Sandrine insisted. ‘I don’t know anything.’

She raised her head and forced herself to look into his eyes. They were dark, devoid of any emotion. All she could see was her own fear reflected back at her. Then her eyes slid sideways, a glint of light, to the silver crucifix on his lapel.

‘We seem to have reached an impasse,’ he said. ‘In which case, I had better find a way to help you remember what you do know.’

Authié drew his gun from his belt. Sandrine felt the atmosphere in the room change. Laval half stepped forward.

‘I have nothing of value to tell you,’ she said, with as much courage as she could muster. At the same time, she knew that if he killed her, at least it would be over. She would die without giving anyone away.

Authié suddenly pulled her skirt up above her knees, then pushed the muzzle of the gun between her legs, slowly pressing the cold metal against her skin.

‘Where is the Codex?’ he said. ‘Let’s start with this.’

‘I don’t know.’

Authié moved the weapon higher up the inside of her thigh. ‘Come now, you can do better than that.’

Sandrine felt the muzzle of the gun jabbing against her pubic bone now and realised what he intended to do. She closed her eyes.

‘I don’t know,’ she said again, bracing herself for the pain.

Then she heard it, the same whispered word. The same voice, just for a moment.

‘Coratge.’

And then another memory. The warrior stone angel in Square Gambetta. Her determined stare, her hands wrapped around the hilt of her sword, her wings broken but her fighting spirit undimmed. And the thought of her gave Sandrine the courage to hold out. For a little longer.

‘I don’t know anything,’ she said again.

Chapter 131

Raoul had been in the bar since six fifteen. Bonnet and Yvette arrived about half an hour after that.

‘They came in at five fifteen, you say,’ Raoul said desperately.

Yvette nodded. The bar was noisy, even at this time in the morning, and she had to raise her voice to be heard. ‘Milice and Gestapo. Six of them for one prisoner.’

‘You saw her?’

Yvette shook her head. ‘I can’t say that I did. There were so many of them shielding her.’

‘But how do you know it was a woman?’

‘She was wearing a skirt,’ she replied, ‘and had a funny pair of socks on. Those Scottish tartan things that were all the rage a couple of years back.’

‘Anything else you noticed?’ Robert prompted.

‘I didn’t see anything else. They took her to one of the rooms at the back.’

‘Did you hear anything?’

Yvette shook her head. ‘Not allowed in that part of the building.’

‘What part?’ Raoul said quickly.

‘The interrogation rooms,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m sorry.’

Raoul blanched, but didn’t let himself think about anything other than how to get her away.

‘As I was leaving, Major Authié arrived. He looked angry. I think he’d been with Schiffner already, but I’m not sure. I overheard him saying they would move the prisoner this morning, then he went striding down the corridor and into the room, and I didn’t hear anything else.’

She glanced at Robert, then back to Raoul. ‘Robert was waiting for me. Asked me to come to meet you.’ She frowned. ‘I don’t know if it’s your girl,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You’ve been a great help, love,’ Robert said, putting his large hand over hers. ‘Thanks to you, at least we know she’s there.’

‘Someone’s there,’ Yvette corrected.

Bonnet turned to Raoul. ‘From what Yvette says, there might be a chance of getting to her.’

‘How?’ Raoul lit a cigarette, jiggling his leg up and down. He couldn’t trust himself to speak.

‘Apparently they don’t keep suspects in the cells for long. If Authié wants to move her, more than likely it will be to the detention centre in the Caserne Laperrine. That’s the usual pattern once an interrogation’s completed: the Gestapo transfer prisoners either to the hospital—’

Raoul interrupted, unable to bear thinking about that. ‘You say she was alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s what I was coming to,’ Bonnet said. ‘A single prisoner, a woman, they’re likely to transfer her in a panier à salade rather than use a prison van. Should make it easier. Is she likely to be able to help herself?’

‘You know Sandrine,’ he said. ‘She’s brave. She won’t talk.’

‘You think she’ll need help?’

Raoul met his gaze. ‘She’ll have held out for as long as she can.’

For a moment, no one spoke. Then Robert turned to Yvette. ‘Can you go to the Clinique Bastion and warn Dr Giraud that we might have a patient for him.’ He paused. ‘On second thoughts, he won’t be at the clinic. There was a round-up in boulevard Barbès and Trivalle, so he’s more likely to be in the cabin he uses out at Cavayère. Can you find out if he’s there? Warn him to expect us?’

Yvette nodded and stood up, tying her headscarf beneath her chin.

‘We need to be in position, ready for when they move her.’

‘If they move her,’ Raoul muttered.

‘You go now. I’ll fetch a car, a little extra help, then meet you there. Brown Peugeot, corner of boulevard Omer Sarraut.’

Raoul nodded.

Sandrine didn’t think she could take any more. Her body was broken, racked with pain. The blood had dried between her legs, but she felt as if her insides had been ripped out. She had told Authié nothing, but each time it became more difficult not to give in. All she wanted after these hours, minutes – could it be days, she didn’t know – was for it to stop. The questions, the barrage of questions and blows.

‘If you’ll let me continue, sir.’

‘I don’t want her dead, Laval,’ Authié snapped, but then he clicked his fingers.

She’d forgotten Laval was still in the room. She registered that they were arguing. Then she was being dragged to her feet. She felt the slightest touch of fingers against her back, Authié or Laval, she didn’t know, then her shirt being torn from her back.

Before, she would have reacted, but she couldn’t see it mattered now. There was no humiliation she hadn’t been subjected to already, no pain they hadn’t inflicted on her. But then she smelt something new – the smell of heat and of metal, a hiss of iron – and discovered that she still had the capacity to experience fear.

‘Hold her down.’

Sandrine felt herself being pushed forward, her face hitting the hard surface of a table or a counter top, she didn’t know. Then, the most excruciating agony she’d ever felt as he pressed the poker into her shoulder, branding her. The spit and hiss of skin, the sickly smell of burnt flesh. It was seconds before her body and her mind caught up with one another. She tried to turn herself to stone, like the warrior statue. Impervious to pain.

Y penser toujours. Never forget.

It was too much to ask. Finally, Sandrine submitted. She screamed and screamed, letting out everything she had kept inside her for the past hours.

Witnessing her being branded, even after everything he had seen, was too much for one of the vert-de-gris in the room. She heard him vomit and the angry response from Authié at the running feet. The murmured orders as someone was sent to clear up the mess. Even in her half-conscious state, Sandrine experienced a moment of triumph. One last, tiny triumph.

But now all she wanted was to sleep. The dark pull of oblivion. A few words, that was all it would take, to put an end to this.

The door opened again. The sound of shoes striding across the tiles, then stopping dead.

‘Vous avez obtenu les renseignements desirés, Herr Authié?’

A German voice speaking accented, formal French.

‘The prisoner continues to withhold information,’ he replied. ‘But we will make her talk.’

Sandrine was dimly aware of this new person leaning over her. She could feel the fire spreading through every part of her body, pain coming in waves from the place where the poker had met her skin.

Then disgust in the German’s voice. ‘What have you done to her, Authié?’

Another tiny moment of triumph.

‘Y penser toujours,’ she muttered before she passed out.

Raoul raced through the labyrinth of small streets running parallel to the route de Toulouse. When he was certain he was not being followed, he crossed to the far side of the road, then into the network of suburban cul-de-sacs lying between the railway sidings and the main road, until he was in position at the back of Gestapo headquarters.

There was no corner of the ancient city, north or south, west or east, left untouched by the war. Mostly, the Gestapo and the Wehrmacht had requisitioned the grandest of the buildings. This nondescript villa was the exception, a provincial house rather than a military installation, despite the fact that Chef Eckfelner, Sous-chef Schiffner and Inspectors Janeke and Zimmerman were key Resistance targets. Several attempts had been made on the building and had failed.

Armed guards patrolled the perimeter, cradling standard-issue sub-machine guns and with pistols at their belts. Raoul scanned the roof and windows on the first floor, seeing no signs of snipers or additional guards. Square, heavy floodlights were trained on the yard and, over the walls, out into the street.

Raoul glanced at his watch. From what Yvette had overheard, they would transfer her this morning. Always assuming it was Sandrine. That she was still alive. He shook his head, telling himself he could not allow himself to doubt. He wanted a cigarette, but knew the smoke would give him away.

Fixing his eyes on the metal grille, he emptied his mind and listened for the mechanism of the gate getting ready to open. Ten minutes passed before, as Robert had explained, a red warning light began to flash by the vehicle exit. There was a clunk of heavy machinery, then the gate itself began to slide open. Moments later, a green police car shot out of the compound into the small street and rounded the corner, heading towards the main road. It had been so quick, he wasn’t sure of what he’d seen, but it looked like a driver and a guard in the front, then two people in the back. A glimpse of black hair.

Raoul broke cover, along the track that led beside the railway sidings, to the corner of the boulevard. Robert’s brother Gaston was waiting with a Luger ·38 special tucked into the waistband of his trousers, half shielded beneath his jacket.

Raoul held up three fingers, to confirm what he’d seen. Gaston nodded and set off quickly through the Jardin des Plantes, watching out for the green Citroën.

Raoul stayed on the far side of the road, drawing his pistol but holding it pointed down to the ground by his side. Keeping Gaston in his sights, his attention was caught by the flapping of the Nazi flag on the building opposite. Most public buildings now carried the hated Croix Gammée, the swastika, in place of the Tricolore of the French Republic.

He located the brown Peugeot and darted across the boulevard. Robert was waiting at the top of the rue du Port. There was no other traffic of any kind.

‘A driver and guard in the front, two people in the back,’ he said.

‘Was it her?’

Raoul hesitated. ‘I think so.’

Bonnet nodded and pushed the starter. The engine spluttered into life. Raoul looked back up the road, seeing the green Citroën turn the corner and drive towards them.

‘Here they come.’

He stepped away from the car, looking for Gaston in the shade of the trees. Located him, raised his hand.

Then everything happened at once. Robert stamped down on the accelerator pedal. The Peugeot shot forward, forcing the police car to swerve. He put the car immediately into reverse, slamming into the side of the panier à salade, driving it back into the kerb. The police car juddered, jerked, its back wheels skidding, steam billowing from the buckled bonnet.

Robert kept his engine running.

Gaston came alongside the nearside window, raised his pistol and emptied the clip. Glass shattered everywhere. The driver was thrown back, then slumped forward on the dashboard, the guard collapsed sideways on top of him. Blood, glass, scattered, shimmering on the road.

Raoul ran to the car. He could see Sandrine and a man in plain clothes lying across the back seat. He pulled at the handle, but it was jammed. He hesitated, then smashed the window with his pistol, trying not to send too much glass in. He reached in and released the lock, and dragged the door open. The street was filling up, customers from the Café Continental and Café Edouard coming out to see what was happening. German soldiers rushing out of the Hôtel Terminus, weapons raised.

‘Unconscious in the back,’ he said to Gaston. ‘Cover me.’

Raoul put his arms beneath Sandrine. She cried out in pain. It was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard, though a violent torrent of rage and desire for revenge swept through him at the sight of her. Her eyes were swollen shut, her clothes torn. Blood was dried on her face, her arms, her legs. On her shoulder, an open weeping burn. Desperate not to inflict any more pain on her battered body, he placed her on the back seat of the Peugeot and got in beside her. As he shut the door, Robert was already accelerating, leaving Gaston to make his getaway through the shaded, overgrown alleyways of the botanical gardens.

The car swung round as Robert doubled back to avoid a roadblock. Outside the Terminus, soldiers raised their machine guns and opened fire. Bullets ricocheted off the bumper and Raoul felt one tyre blow, but Robert kept control of the car. Cradling Sandrine in his arms, Raoul looked back at the scene of devastation behind him. A man staggered out of the back of the panier à salade, then straightened up with his hand on the roof of the car. Soldiers and police rushed to help him. Raoul felt his chest tighten another notch. He had barely looked at the man in the car. His only aim was to get Sandrine out and away. But now he could see it was Leo Authié.

He had had him there, and hadn’t realised. He should have killed him. Shot him while he was unconscious. He’d had another chance at him, but had let it slip through his fingers.

Robert turned the corner, driving dangerously fast, then up towards the cimetière Saint-Vincent. The motion of the car disturbed Sandrine.

‘I don’t know anything . . .’ she murmured.

Raoul felt her shift in his arms and cry out again in pain, and he forgot everything.

‘I’ve got you, I’m here,’ he whispered. ‘You’re safe now.’

He thought he saw a smile flicker across her bruised lips.

‘I didn’t tell them anything . . .’

‘Ma belle,’ he muttered, trying to keep the distress from his voice. ‘I’m here. It’s going to be all right. Everything’s going to be all right.’

But as he looked down at her bruised and battered body lying beside him, the blistered skin and the blood on her legs and skirt, he didn’t know how it could ever be all right. The car screeched around another corner, then started to struggle up the hill.

‘Hurry.’

Robert glanced at him in the rear mirror, then slammed his foot hard on the accelerator. The old engine stuttered and whined, but the car leapt forward again as they climbed into the hills around Cavayère.

‘Hurry,’ Raoul said again.

Chapter 132

COUSTAUSSA

‘Thank you,’ said Lucie, getting out of the back of the van. One of the men handed Jean-Jacques down to her.

‘You’ll be all right with the little one?’

She nodded. ‘There’s bound to be someone who can give me a ride to Coustaussa.’ The man looked doubtful. She wondered if she was wrong. She’d been gone for eighteen months. She had no idea how much Couiza might have changed.

When the van had driven off, Lucie walked through the woods and down to the river’s edge, her son’s chubby little hand in hers. It was such a pleasure to be away from the watchful streets of the Bastide that she felt in no hurry. The dappled sun through the canopy of leaves, the sweet sound of the Aude flowing over the rocky riverbed.

‘Careful now, J-J,’ she said. ‘Watch where you’re going.’

The little boy put his arms up. ‘Mama, carry. Carry, carry, carry.’

‘Come on, my little man, you can do it on your own. Just a few more steps.’

Jean-Jacques started to frown, then changed his mind and stumbled the last few paces to the water’s edge on his own. Lucie knelt forward and splashed water on her cheeks, then used her handkerchief to wipe her son’s face.

‘Swim?’ he sang hopefully. ‘Swim, swim, swim.’

Lucie laughed. ‘Not now,’ she said, scooping him up. ‘Too early to go swimming. We need to find everyone and have breakfast, then we’ll see.’

Jean-Jacques frowned.

‘We’re going to see Marieta and Tante Liesl.’

The little boy smiled. ‘Liesl.’

‘Good boy.’

Lucie began to walk along the river towards the town. Now he was away from the city, Jean-Jacques no longer had a sore throat. He was playing with the buttons on the collar of her shirt. He couldn’t have any memory of either Marieta or Liesl, but she hadn’t wanted them to be disappointed, so she had talked to him about them all the time.

‘And Tante Marianne and Tante Suzanne will be there too,’ she added.

The little boy’s eyes brightened. ‘Suzu,’ he said. ‘Plane.’

Lucie smiled. His favourite toy was a cardboard aeroplane Suzanne had made him and repaired a hundred times.

‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Plane. If you’re a very good boy, perhaps Suzu will make you a new plane? What about that?’

‘Plane, plane, plane . . .’

As Lucie came into town, she immediately knew the place had changed. Raoul had warned her, but she hadn’t expected it to be so obvious. There was a major Wehrmacht arms depot and food store on the hill at Montazels, which meant there were military vehicles on the roads a lot of the time. He’d also told her there was a small Maquis unit hiding out in the garrigue between Alet-les-Bains and Coustaussa, on the opposite side of the valley. The Milice had made several attempts to destroy the group, but had so far only succeeded in driving them higher into the hills.

Lucie hugged Jean-Jacques closer to her. She walked towards the Grand Café Guilhem. There were a few women sitting at the tables on the terrace. She didn’t recognise any of them. No men at all.

‘Faim, faim,’ Jean-Jacques suddenly said, trying to wriggle down from her arms.

‘You’re hungry, little man?’

Jean-Jacques pointed at the bread one of the women was dipping in a cup of black barley and chicory coffee.

‘Tartine.’

‘No, we’re going to the boulangerie to choose something nice. Shall we do that? J-J help me choose?’

To her relief, Jean-Jacques vigorously nodded his head. ‘Choose. J-J choose.’

Lucie walked briskly across the square, her bag swinging from her arm, heading for the patisserie, run by the station master’s wife, Mathilde. She stepped through the fly curtain in the doorway, grabbing at J-J’s hand to stop him pulling the beads, then into the cool interior.

Mathilde looked up with a neutral expression. She frowned, faltered, then recognised Lucie and a smile broke out on her face.

‘Madomaisèla!’ she said. She leant across the counter and pinched Jean-Jacques’ cheek. ‘And look at your little chap, hasn’t he grown? I hardly recognised either of you. Where’s all that lovely blonde hair of yours gone?’

‘Couldn’t get the peroxide,’ Lucie replied. ‘Aren’t I a sight? But what can a girl do but go natural?’ She smiled. ‘You don’t look any different at all, Mathilde. How’s Ernest?’

Mathilde’s face clouded over. ‘He’s no longer with us,’ she said.

‘Oh no.’

‘Got caught up in the Gestapo attack on Villerouge-Termenès,’ she said. ‘He killed three of them before they got him. His bravery allowed his comrades to get away, so they told me.’

‘I’m so sorry, Mathilde,’ Lucie said quietly.

‘It’s how he would have wanted to go,’ the older woman said simply. She gave a brief nod, to indicate the conversation was over, then put her broad hands on the counter. ‘So. What can I do for you, madomaisèla?’

Lucie looked at the empty shelves. There were no baguettes, just two loaves of black bread wrapped in a twist of paper with a name written on it. It was clear that everyone else had come in much earlier in the morning.

‘A little something for J-J to keep him going until I get to the house,’ she said, fishing in her bag and producing a strip of coupons.

Mathilde waved them away. ‘No need to worry about that,’ she said. ‘Let’s see if I can find something special.’

She vanished into the back, reappearing a moment later with a madeleine sponge cake. ‘My own recipe,’ she said. ‘I have to make do with powdered egg and saccharine, but they seem to go down quite well all the same.’

‘That’s very kind,’ Lucie said warmly.

‘Here you are, little chap.’ Mathilde handed it to Jean-Jacques. ‘A special cake for a special boy.’

He reached out and took it.

‘What do you say, J-J?’ Lucie said sharply.

He paused. ‘Très bon.’

The women both laughed.

‘I don’t suppose the Saturday market bus still runs?’ Lucie asked.

‘No, but someone’s sure to be going that way. If you give me a minute, I’ll arrange something.’ She reached under the counter and produced a package wrapped in newspaper. ‘And if you could take this for Marieta, that would save the boy a journey later.’

‘How are things in Couiza generally?’ Lucie said, dropping her voice.

‘As well as can be expected,’ Mathilde said, putting the bread in Lucie’s bag. ‘A few work for the other side. And there’s plenty of miliciens about because of the Wehrmacht depot. One or two parachute drops have missed their targets recently. Brings the Gestapo into the town.’ She shook her head. ‘Nothing to do with me,’ she said firmly, meeting Lucie’s eye.

‘No. Of course not.’

‘Are you back for good?’ Mathilde asked. ‘You and Jean-Jacques?’

Lucie hesitated, then she smiled. ‘I hope so.’

It took no time for Mathilde to organise a ride to Coustaussa on the back of Ernestine Cassou’s dog trap. An hour later, Lucie was sitting in the kitchen at CITADELLE with Marieta and Liesl, Marianne and Suzanne and Geneviève. There had been tears and embraces, a rapid-fire exchange of day-to-day news – nothing serious – as she was brought up to date with everything Marianne and Suzanne had already been told. She felt as if she had never been away.

She exchanged a look with Liesl, who smiled. Lucie had expected Liesl to have changed a great deal. She was tall and beautiful, a woman, not the nervous child Lucie remembered. Sandrine and Raoul spoke of her as very resourceful and brave. Lucie found she was a little intimidated by her.

They had gone outside on their own to show J-J the garden and talked for a few minutes about Max. They had cried a little, then discussed the rumours that the camp was being evacuated. There had been no news from their friend in the Café de la Paix for more than a week, so Liesl was intending to try to go to the village herself, if at all possible, to find out the truth. As Lucie looked at her now, so self-contained and still, she hoped that she and Liesl would have a chance to get to know one another again. Also that the sense of feeling a little at a disadvantage in the younger woman’s company would pass.

‘Ernestine Cassou wasn’t as awful as I remembered,’ Lucie said. ‘She didn’t say much, but she seemed happy enough to bring me here.’

‘She and her father aren’t unusual,’ Geneviève said. ‘They went along with Pétain to start with. They turned a blind eye because they thought it was for the best. Then they realised what collaboration actually meant – no food, forced labour, being second-class citizens in their own country. They don’t know what to do.’

‘But they’re not doing anything to help bring the occupation to an end,’ Suzanne said.

‘No,’ Geneviève admitted.

Marianne nodded. ‘You didn’t say anything in front of her?’

‘Lord, no.’

After only two days in Coustaussa, Marianne was already looking less haggard and gaunt, though there was still that underlying nervousness. Lucie smiled at her son, hoping the country air would do him good too.

‘Mathilde told me about Ernest,’ she said.

‘Dreadful,’ Marieta said, without looking up. ‘A dreadful loss.’

‘But to know Monsieur Baillard is all right,’ Lucie continued, ‘that’s the most wonderful news.’

Marieta stopped what she was doing, a smile breaking across her tired, worn face.

‘I never doubted it,’ she said.

‘Have you seen him yet, Marieta?’ Lucie asked. ‘How is he?’

‘Not yet. He’s in Tarascon with Monsieur l’Inspecteur,’ she said. ‘He has business there. He will come when he can. For now, it’s enough to know he is well.’

‘Eloise and Guillaume are helping him,’ Geneviève said, ‘although . . .’ She paused, casting her mind back to the conversation they’d had on the day of Pierre Déjean’s funeral. ‘Though I get the feeling that it’s Sandrine he’s really waiting for. Eloise says he is planning to go into the mountains to search for the Codex, even though the entire area is now off limits. There are SS patrols everywhere. Anyone caught in a prohibited zone is arrested.’

‘Or shot,’ Liesl said.

Straight away, Lucie’s contented frame of mind vanished. She knew Suzanne had told the others about Authié’s return to Carcassonne, so at least she didn’t have to be the bearer of bad news. But as she looked at Marianne, she saw her thoughts had returned to her sister.

‘I’m sure Sandrine’s all right,’ Lucie said. ‘Raoul stayed behind so they could travel together. Sandrine will be all right. She always is.’

Chapter 133

CARCASSONNE

Raoul cradled Sandrine’s head in his lap, doing his best to insulate her from the jolts and potholes on the track. Her breathing had grown shallow and her skin was drained of colour.

‘How much further, Bonnet?’ Raoul said. ‘I’m not sure she can last any longer.’

They had pulled off the road some time back and were slowly making their way along a forestry path between the pine trees in the woods around Cavayère, the chassis of the car bumping over the uneven surface of the draille.

‘We’re nearly there.’

He made one final switchback turn, following a winding path that led steeply up, then parked beneath the branches of a pin parasol.

‘This is it.’

Raoul looked up at the log cabin. An idyllic location in the hills, perfect for hunting. A warm oil lamp glowed in the window.

‘He’s here,’ Bonnet said, quickly getting out of the car. He knocked on the door of the cabin, then came round to Raoul’s side to help him lift Sandrine out. She had lost consciousness and there was a slick of blood on the back seat.

Jeanne Giraud appeared in the doorway. Raoul saw distress flood her face at her first sight of Sandrine, but she kept her head.

‘Bring her through,’ she said.

‘Is Giraud here?’ Raoul asked desperately.

‘My husband’s washing his hands,’ she said.

Carefully, so as not to open any of Sandrine’s wounds, Raoul and Robert carried her into the cabin. A sturdy table had been covered with a rough woollen blanket in the centre of the single room.

‘Is there nowhere else? A bed?’ Raoul said.

‘This is what Jean-Marc needs,’ she replied calmly. ‘We’ll make her comfortable afterwards.’

Between them, Raoul and Robert laid Sandrine down on the makeshift operating table, on her side so the burn wasn’t in contact with the blanket.

Bonnet stood back. ‘I’m going to leave you, Pelletier. Get back to the Bastide and make sure Yvette and Gaston are all right.’ He glanced at Jeanne. ‘Someone will let me know? If you need me to come back later.’

‘She’ll be here for a few days,’ Jeanne said in the same calm and steady voice.

Raoul nodded his thanks. Moments later, he heard the engine start up and the car begin its careful descent down the rough track through the forest.

He looked around the cabin. There was one small window and a bookshelf on the far wall. In the corner there was a small table with a typewriter on it. Madame Giraud noticed him looking and covered up the papers lying on the desk.

‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am that—’

‘They are monsters,’ she said in a low voice. ‘They arrested my father-in-law yesterday.’

‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise.’

Jeanne met his gaze. ‘They released him, but not before giving him a broken nose and a black eye. Sixty-five years old. He knows nothing.’ She poured him a large measure of brandy. ‘Anyway, drink this. You look like you need it.’

Raoul knocked the measure back in one go, then moved to stand closer to Sandrine’s head. She was very pale and her breathing was shallow, snatched, as if every gasp cost her more than she could spare. Raoul wanted to hold her hand or stroke her hair or rest his head on her shoulder, but everything about her was battered and torn.

The back door opened and a dark-haired, wiry man in his mid twenties came in, drying his hands on a towel. He didn’t waste time with niceties, but went straight to his patient. Raoul saw him blanch as he saw the extent of her injuries.

‘Will she be all right, Giraud?’

‘Did my wife say your name was Pelletier?’

‘That’s right.’

He looked at his patient. ‘And she is?’

‘Sandrine.’

‘Marianne Vidal’s sister?’

‘That’s right.’

‘She was a pupil of mine,’ Jeanne said. ‘She was the girl who helped on Bastille Day when the bomb went off at Saint-Michel, remember? Papa thought a lot of her.’

Giraud met Raoul’s eye. ‘Might I know her by another name?’

Raoul held his gaze. ‘You might.’

He said nothing more, but Raoul realised Giraud knew her reputation and hoped it would make him even more determined to save her.

He took an ophthalmoscope from his bag, lifted the less swollen of her eyelids and shone the light in her eye.

‘Mademoiselle Vidal? Sandrine? Can you hear me?’

There was no reaction. Giraud looked up at Raoul. ‘How long’s she been unconscious?’

‘She talked a little in the car at first, but not for half an hour or so.’

‘What happened?’

‘Gestapo. We managed to rescue her as they were transferring her from the route de Toulouse to the Caserne Laperrine.’

Giraud didn’t look up, but continued to examine Sandrine’s injuries. ‘How long was she with them before that?’

‘She was arrested at five o’clock this morning,’ he said quietly.

Giraud stopped. ‘She was there for six hours.’

‘Yes.’ Raoul hesitated. ‘Will she make it?’

Giraud paused and looked up for a moment. ‘So long as no infection sets in, she’ll make it. Physically, at least, though she’s going to be pretty uncomfortable.’ He pointed at the suppurating burn on her shoulder. ‘But mentally? I don’t know. They did a job on her, Pelletier.’

Raoul forced himself to look at the burn properly, realising that it wasn’t a random shape at all, but rather something specific.

‘It’s some kind of crucifix, by the look of it,’ Giraud was saying.

Raoul felt the bile rising in his throat and took several deep breaths. ‘It’s the Cross of Lorraine,’ he said quietly. They had branded her with the symbol adopted by the Resistance.

Giraud peered. ‘Gestapo, did you say?’

Raoul thought about Authié staggering out of the car. ‘I’m not certain.’

‘I’ve never seen anything like this before,’ Giraud said. His gaze moved down to the blood on Sandrine’s skirt and thighs. ‘If you want to wait outside, Pelletier,’ he said quickly, ‘Jeanne will assist me. No need for you to watch.’

‘I’m staying.’

Giraud held his gaze, then nodded. ‘Very well. I need to disinfect the burns, to prevent infection – that’s the challenge.’ He paused. ‘It will hurt.’

Raoul noticed that Jeanne was holding a jug of vinegar. ‘We haven’t got any antiseptic,’ she said. ‘This will have to do.’

‘Take this,’ Giraud said, thrusting a cloth into Raoul’s hand. ‘Fold it over. Make a wad.’

‘What do I . . .?’

‘Put it between Sandrine’s teeth when she screams,’ Jeanne said.

Raoul felt his stomach clench as Jeanne, gently, helped her husband roll Sandrine further on to her side. As Giraud dabbed the disinfectant on to the livid red weals, Sandrine let out a deep, wild howl, shocked back into consciousness. For a moment, Raoul was so relieved to hear her voice, to see she was awake, that he just stared down at her.

‘For God’s sake, man. The cloth!’

Jolted into action, he put the wad into her mouth, and Sandrine, despite the madness of the pain, understood what was required and bit down hard as Giraud cleaned, then dressed the wound.

‘That’s it, Sandrine,’ Jeanne murmured. ‘It will be over in a moment.’

Raoul saw the agony in her half-open eyes, but she didn’t cry out again. He felt her fingers reaching for his. Her grip was strong and he struggled to keep the tears from his eyes.

‘You’re so brave,’ he whispered to her. ‘No one more so.’

It took nearly an hour for Giraud to clean and dress every wound, sending Raoul out of the room to fetch water as he moved to the injuries further down. Raoul felt a coward for not wanting to know. When he came back with a pail from the stream, Sandrine was covered with a sheet from the waist down.

‘That’s the best I can do,’ Giraud said, as he wiped the blood from his hands.

‘Thank you.’

‘She shouldn’t be moved, but you need to think of where you can take her to recuperate. It’s going to be a good few weeks before she’s up on her feet again. And they’ll be looking for her. For you both.’

Raoul nodded. ‘There’s somewhere we can go, yes.’

‘Good. We’ll leave her to sleep a while. You could do with it too, by the looks of things. Let the painkillers take effect. I’ve given her an injection of morphine to take the edge off things, but it will wear off. The wounds are all clean, but it’s possible infection will set in. Internally, well, have to see. Tricky.’ He broke off. ‘The burn on her back, that’s the one you have to keep an eye on. She needs to be kept as still and as quiet as possible.’

Despite everything, Raoul smiled. ‘Try keeping her still.’ Then he looked at Sandrine and his face clouded over once more.

Giraud’s professional expression faltered for a moment.

‘You can both stay here for the rest of today and tonight,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s safe up here, so far as anywhere’s safe. Tomorrow too, if she’s not well enough to be moved.’

‘There aren’t any other cabins nearby?’

‘One or two on the far side of the hill,’ he said. His expression grew grim. ‘And they’ve not found us yet.’

Raoul gave a long sigh. ‘I can’t thank you enough, Giraud. You too, madame.’

‘It’s an honour.’

‘She’s a brave woman,’ Jeanne said, putting a cushion under Sandrine’s head.

‘Sandrine would be thanking you herself,’ he said, glancing at her, ‘if she could.’

‘She can thank me when she wakes up,’ Giraud said briskly.

Raoul frowned. ‘Aren’t you going to move her somewhere more comfortable?’

‘Later,’ Giraud said. ‘Best to leave her be for now. Jeanne will sit with her, if you want to get a bit of rest yourself.’

Raoul shook his head. ‘I’m not leaving,’ he said.

Giraud and his wife exchanged a look, then Jeanne nodded.

‘I’ll fetch you a chair,’ she said.

Chapter 134

TARASCON

There was another burst of gunfire in the hills. Were they anti-aircraft guns? Audric Baillard could not tell at this distance. In the mountains, the sound was distorted.

Achille Pujol and Guillaume Breillac stopped alongside him. They had crossed into the restricted zone some half an hour ago. The Wehrmacht patrols were known to shoot on sight.

‘Do you wish to go on, sénher?’

In the distance, Baillard heard the faint sound of a plane. All three men looked up at the sky. A parachute drop for the Picaussel Maquis was due tonight but, in recent weeks, many of the Allied attempts to get weapons and provisions to the Resistance and Maquis had gone wrong. They either missed their target or, worse, maquisards arrived to find the Gestapo waiting.

Baillard nodded. ‘We should go on,’ he said quietly. ‘The disturbance sounds some way off.’

Breillac accepted the decision without argument. He knew the easiest route up towards the Pic de Vicdessos for his elderly companions. Baillard had not yet regained his full strength but, even so, he was finding the going easier than Pujol. His old friend had been determined to come with them, but he was breathing heavily and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

‘There’s no reason why Authié should be able to find you, Audric,’ Pujol panted, ‘any more than I could. They’ll try Los Seres, I dare say, but you’ve not been there for so long, what can they find?’

‘That is true, my friend,’ Baillard said.

Pujol’s magpie network of police officers, working undercover with the Resistance, had done their work well. In the past twenty-four hours, news had come from a sympathiser in the Carcassonne Commissariat that Authié’s deputy, Sylvère Laval, had requested the police file on Baillard.

Pujol had taken the news badly. Since then, he had barely left Baillard’s side. But it was only what Baillard had expected. Saurat would have given the Gestapo his name. The SS in Lyon would have passed it on to de l’Oradore. It wasn’t important. It only meant that he had to act sooner than he would have chosen. He would have preferred to wait for Sandrine Vidal and Raoul Pelletier before going in search of the Codex. There was something about the young couple that made them central to his plans.

‘They don’t know you’re here, Baillard,’ Pujol said again.

Baillard put his hand on his friend’s arm. ‘Save your breath, amic.’ He gestured up the slope. ‘There is still some way to go.’

They walked on in silence for a while, Baillard listening for signs that they had company on the hillside, but hearing nothing to cause alarm. No more gunfire, no evidence that they were getting closer to a patrol, no sound of an engine.

‘Eloise tells me it is called the Vallée des Trois Loups,’ he said to Guillaume as the path levelled out. ‘The Valley of the Three Wolves. Do you know where the name came from?’

Guillaume took the bottle, slaked his thirst, then handed it on to Pujol.

‘Her family is descended from the early inhabitants of the area. Most of the oldest Tarasconnais families claim descent from the same three sisters who lived here in the fourth century. One of them was called Lupa – I don’t know what the others were called – which is where their surname, Saint-Loup, supposedly comes from. I don’t know why. She was never made a saint, to my knowledge. Perhaps they were named after the place, rather than the other way round.’

‘Names are important,’ Baillard said lightly.

Breillac continued. ‘Marianne and Sandrine Vidal are related to them too, through their mother’s side of the family.’

Baillard stopped. ‘Is that so?’ he said quietly.

Pujol stared at the changing expression on his face. ‘Is that important, Audric?’

‘I do not know,’ he said softly. ‘It may be. We will see, we will see.’

They went on in silence. The path was dry and slippery with dust, and although Guillaume kept a steady pace, both Baillard and Pujol took each step carefully. Soon Baillard saw a sequence of caves, facing west across the valley, cradled within the ancient pines and oak, the timeless green woodland. He could also make out a pattern, cast by the rays of the sun, on the face of one sheer wall of limestone.

He smiled. The air might be less clear, pylons and buildings might scar the landscape, but the sun rose in the east as it ever had, and sank back to earth in the west. He put his hand to his pocket, where Arinius’ map lay folded, but he did not need to get it out. He could see it in his mind’s eye. In sixteen hundred years, the essential character of the land had not changed. And on the flat surface above the entrance to one of the caves, the mountain still cast a shadow much like the shape of a cross.

‘A place of safety,’ he said.

‘Is this it?’ Guillaume asked.

Baillard nodded. ‘I know the way now.’

Now Baillard led, fixing his gaze on the shadow cast by the scattered pink light. As they drew closer, the pattern changed. There appeared to be a second arm beneath the first, a double cross, much like the Cross of Lorraine. An ancient symbol, adopted now by the Resistance.

A cloud crossed the face of the sun and, for a moment, Baillard felt a jolt of horror, a fierce premonition of something dreadful. The shadow symbol transformed from a sign of strength to an image of burnt and scarred flesh. He could smell it, familiar from mass burnings he had witnessed at Montségur in days past. He could feel the victim’s agony.

Then the cloud moved on. The sun reappeared and the air was calm once more. He put his hand to his chest and felt how his heart was racing.

‘Are you all right, Baillard?’ Pujol asked. ‘Do you want to rest a while?’

Baillard shook his head. ‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘No.’

They passed a clump of juniper bushes at the edge of the path, went through an avenue of oak, up the hillside through the thicket and heavy undergrowth to the plateau in front of the opening in the mountainside. This close, the light fell differently so the outline of the cross was no longer so clear. Instead, a slanted pattern of dark lines intersected. The sky was slashed through with wisps of white cloud. Everything was as he had visualised it from the woollen map.

Baillard looked back at the avenue of oak trees, at the juniper, then forward to the ring of stones seeming to frame the entrance to the cave. He suddenly remembered the brooch Sandrine Vidal had told him about two summers before. Found in the ruins of the castle outside Coustaussa and given as a present to her father. He let out a long sigh. Sandrine was linked to this place.

‘A place of sanctuary,’ he murmured.

Like Baillard, the monk Arinius had been a witness to truth, dedicated to the preservation of knowledge, not its destruction. In his long life, Baillard had found other allies. And in this single moment of understanding, he allowed himself to remember one in particular. Not Sandrine, not Léonie, though he admired them both. But the only woman he had ever loved. Loved still. The reason he had to keep de l’Oradore at bay.

‘Alaïs,’ he said.

He wondered if it was now too late to hope she might ever come back to him. If too much time had passed.

‘Is this the place, Sénher Baillard?’ Guillaume asked.

‘It is.’

Baillard held out his hand. Pujol passed him the torch.

‘Do you want me to come in with you, Audric?’

Baillard looked at his friend’s anxious expression, then at Breillac’s careful, thoughtful face. He wondered what the sisters after whom the valley was named could have done to be remembered with such respect and affection.

‘I shall go in alone,’ he said. ‘You keep watch. Should I need you, I will call.’

He depressed the button on the torch, then, in the beam of the pale yellow light, he stepped into the cave the map maker had found so many centuries before. To bring the Codex back out at last into the light.

Codex XXI

GAUL

TARASCO

AUGUST AD 344

July gave way to August. And although the stories of atrocities in the settlements in the valleys continued to be carried on the wind to Tarasco, still the soldiers never arrived. Arinius waited as the days tipped over, one into the next. The men grew less vigilant, more resentful of the lives they were being asked to live.

By the third week, they were restless. Some wanted to bring the women and children back down to the village, believing the threat had gone. Others wanted to muster as many troops as possible and head north to attack their enemy first. Only Arinius and a few stalwart allies held firm. He could feel evil stalking the valley like a living creature. He knew the time was coming and he was torn. He, too, made journeys up into the mountains to visit his family from time to time. His son, Marcellus, was growing stronger by the day. But Arinius always came back at night, to keep watch.

Finally, after the moon had waxed and waned once more, the moment they had feared so long, that had ruled their lives for so long, arrived. A fine August day, when the birds were flying and the sky was clear. The sort of day to give thanks for the world, Arinius thought, not one for bloodshed or death or ruin.

At first, an awareness of a disturbance. A hint of time suspended, waiting, like a whisper through the trees. All but imperceptible at first, then louder and louder again, the sound of men moving through the oak and pine of the lower slopes, the juniper disrupted and the rustle of the fallen leaves underfoot, dry and brittle like kindling. A little closer, and the unmistakable sound of metal on leather, swords unsheathed and the rattle of shield and knife.

Arinius looked for his brother-in-law. He, too, never missed his watch.

‘It is time,’ he said. ‘We must summon the others. We have too few men. We must bring everyone back.’

He called his nephew, a boy of eight, but strong and fearless, and instructed him to gather what support he could.

‘Quick, now,’ he said. ‘There is little time.’

The truth was, as Arinius knew, that it would be a matter of numbers and the nature of the forces marching against them. If they were trained soldiers, soldiers deserting their commissions, then Tarasco would have little chance. But if they were only bandits, dispossessed and ramshackle themselves, worthy more of pity than resistance, Arinius prayed there might be hope of winning the battle.

He organised a line of defence, checking that the ditches surrounding the settlement were filled with dried leaves and twigs to burn. Then he ordered everyone to the higher ground, where javelins or spears would be most effective and they had an uninterrupted view of the path as it climbed towards them. The noise grew louder, a tramping of feet on the lower paths, the murmuring of voices as the attackers came closer. Arinius looked back up the mountain, desperate for the sight of his nephew returning with reinforcements, but saw nothing.

Below, he saw someone emerge from the distant tree line. A scout? He was a huge bear of a man with arms broader than Arinius’ legs. He looked around, then darted back into the safety of the trees. How many were there? How many would come?

Arinius tried to pray, but he found he could not. Fear had driven every word of intercession from his head. Then, behind him, he sensed movement. He turned, and, as his eyes focused, he saw a host of men coming down the hill. Not just those from their own village, but men from neighbouring communities, some Christian, some not, but each armed and walking down the path.

And at the head of the line were Lupa and her two sisters, Calista and Anona. Arinius was unable to trust the evidence of his own eyes. He simply stood, staring at his wife as she grew bigger, drew closer, until she was standing in front of him. He found he did not know what to say.

Lupa looked at him, a little shyly at first, then stretched up and kissed him on the lips.

‘You sent me away. I did as you asked. I went.’

‘But . . .’ He indicated the mass of people standing behind her.

‘I asked for help,’ she said simply, ‘and God heard.’

Arinius shook his head. ‘No, what I mean is, where have all these people come from?’

Lupa smiled. ‘They are all who remain of the villages that have already been put to the sword, the men of the woods. While you have kept guard, I have travelled from settlement to settlement to ask them to stand beside us to fight.’ She waved her hand. ‘And they have come.’

Arinius looked round at the army his wife had mustered, men with different faces and different tongues, yet standing ready to fight shoulder to shoulder with them. Then he let his gaze return to his extraordinary wife.

‘Lupa,’ he said with admiration.

She smiled, then stepped back into line. Arinius held her gaze for a moment longer, then he climbed up on to a rock and stretched his arms wide.

‘Salvete,’ he said. ‘Friends, you are most welcome. You know the ill that has been done by the men in the valley below. My wife – Lupa – tells me that many of you have already suffered at their hands. I thank you for your courage in coming to our aid. Whatever happens today, you will have God’s blessing.’

Some of the men bowed their heads and made the sign of the cross. Others watched with open-eyed curiosity. A few shuffled awkwardly.

‘May God be with us,’ he said, raising his voice. ‘Amen.’

A small chorus repeated the word after him, Lupa’s voice the clearest and strongest of them all.

Arinius stepped down from the rock. ‘If we survive what is to come, it will be in no small part because of you.’

He drew his sword from his belt and handed it to his wife.

‘You’re not going to send me away?’

‘How could I?’ Arinius said. ‘This is your army, Lupa. These are your men to command, not mine.’

She smiled. ‘They will follow you, Arinius,’ she said proudly. ‘But I shall stand at your side. We will show these barbarians what it is to fight.’ She looked around. ‘Are the defences complete?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then we are ready for them.’

Only then did Arinius notice that Lupa was no longer wearing the iridescent bottle on the leather thong around her neck.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I gave it into the safe keeping of my grandmother. She will keep it – and our beloved Marcellus – safe until we return.’

Chapter 135

COUSTAUSSA

AUGUST 1944

Baillard looked up at the sky. It was a perfect black tonight, unbroken by clouds and scattered with stars.

And they shall sleep once more.

He had studied the verses over the past three weeks, translating them from the Coptic. His understanding of the transcendent promise concealed within the Codex had grown with each reading.

Intimation, incantation, prophecy.

Those of fair heart and true, from the blood of the land where once they fell, come forth in the final hour.

The words ran through his mind, spoken only inside his head. An incomplete song without a tune. He had not said the words out loud. Not yet. He knew that, once spoken, there would be no turning back, though he feared that time was nearly upon them.

Come forth in the final hour.

He stood a moment longer in the silver starlight, then heard the door open and sensed someone making their way across the garden.

He turned.

‘Are you ready, Monsieur Baillard?’

‘Yes, filha.’

Sandrine had cut her hair, so it was as short as Suzanne’s, while the clumps pulled out by Laval grew back. She was very thin, though her skin was tanned from the sun so it wasn’t so obvious. She had taken to wearing slacks to hide the scars on her legs and loose shirts so as not to aggravate the burn scars on her shoulder.

‘Raoul is saying goodbye to the others,’ she said. ‘He won’t be long.’

Three weeks had passed since the events at the villa on the route de Toulouse and most of Sandrine’s injuries had healed. The mark of the cross on her back and a small scar above her right eye, a little finger that hadn’t properly healed, were the outward evidence of what she had endured. But the worst of the damage was inside, body and spirit. She was in pain much of the time. Her hand often went to her stomach when she thought no one was looking, grieving for the children she would no longer be able to bear.

Sandrine hadn’t told anyone else what had happened in the cell on the route de Toulouse, and no one had pressed her. She felt the details of the assault would be more than Raoul or Marianne or Lucie could bear, and Baillard knew she was right. They saw only what she wanted them to see. She had suffered and she had survived, but the experience had changed her. And she told no one but Monsieur Baillard about the voice she had heard. About the warrior angel in stone who seemed to give her courage.

Over the same three weeks, the violence in Languedoc had got worse and worse. There were rumours that the Allies were about to invade from the Mediterranean. That the Germans would withdraw. In the Haute Vallée, Resistance activity continued – at the Port d’Alzau, in Alet-les-Bains, in Limoux. But Allied advances in the North led to increased conflict in the South. German attacks on partisans had intensified, growing ever more brutal. The Maquis in Villezby, Faïta and Picaussel were routed and there were spies and informers everywhere. In Carcassonne, Leo Authié’s iron grip tightened. Every day, more men were taken, friends and comrades fell. Robert and Gaston Bonnet and Jean-Marc Giraud were arrested in the same Gestapo raid that claimed the FFI departmental leader, Jean Bringer – ‘Myriel’ – as well as Aimé Ramond, Maurice Sevajols and Docteur Delteil, Giraud’s colleague at the Clinique du Bastion. Two attempts to rescue them from the prison on the route de Narbonne had been unsuccessful.

Throughout all of this, Raoul refused to leave Sandrine’s side. Baillard’s heart went out to the young man. He did not yet understand there was nothing he could do. Sandrine would recover in her own time, or she would not, but his constant presence – his desperation to see her condition improve – was not helping.

Then the previous evening, they’d received word that the airdrop of weapons for a proposed attack on the local Nazi arms depot had missed its target, jeopardising the operation. It was common for the Allies to be a few kilometres out, but help was urgently needed to transport the equipment to the partisans’ temporary base in the hills above Alet-les-Bains. Sandrine had enlisted Baillard’s help to persuade Raoul to go. She had spent hours reassuring him she would be all right without him, for a few days at most. In the end, Raoul had agreed.

Baillard knew Sandrine had an ulterior motive. It wasn’t just that Raoul’s concern for her well-being was overwhelming. With him constantly at her side, she was unable to put her own plan into action. She knew Raoul would try to stop her, and that for all his courage and experience, he didn’t understand that there was only one way left to end things.

Though it grieved him, Baillard agreed. He was appalled by what they intended to do – what they had to do – but the final hour was approaching.

‘You are resolved to go through with this, filha?’

‘I can’t see we have a choice. Do you, Monsieur Baillard?’

He hesitated, then slowly he shook his head. ‘I do not.’

‘How will I know when you’ve arrived?’ she asked.

‘I will try to get a message to you, madomaisèla. If I cannot, we shall trust that we are each able to fulfil our side of the arrangement. And at the appropriate time it will be done.’

‘Is a week enough?’

‘I believe it is.’

Sandrine sighed. ‘So soon,’ she whispered.

For the first time since they had begun to make their plans, Baillard heard fear in her voice. He felt a glimmer of hope. If Sandrine was starting to experience normal emotions again, that was a good sign – an encouraging sign – that she might recover.

‘You are sure you have to go back to the Pic de Vicdessos, Monsieur Baillard?’ she said. ‘Isn’t there a way you could stay in Coustaussa?’

He gave a long, weary sigh. ‘I am not sure of anything about this matter,’ he said quietly. ‘Instinct draws me back to the Vallée des Trois Loups. Perhaps to speak the words there, where the Codex lay hidden for so long, will give our endeavours a greater chance of success.’ He went to put his hand on her shoulder, then thought better of it. ‘That is what we want, is it not?’

‘Perhaps,’ she said.

Baillard looked at her, holding her safe in his gaze for a while longer. She sounded so very lost.

‘You stand in a long line of women of the Midi, Madomaisèla Sandrine. Courageous, brave women, warriors all, who fought for what they believed to be right.’ He paused. ‘What we attempt to do is not without danger. What we attempt to do may not succeed. But it is right and it is just. We act for the good of all.’

‘Yes,’ she said more forcefully.

He smiled at her. ‘And we shall triumph, I feel sure of it.’

The sound of someone coming down the wooden steps drew their attention. They both turned and saw it was Raoul. The time had come.

‘Good luck,’ Baillard said quickly. ‘And be careful.’ He raised his voice. ‘Now I will allow you to take your leave of your young man. Tell Sénher Pelletier I will be waiting for him at the crossroads.’

Before she could say anything else, Baillard was walking across the garden and out into the garrigue.

Sandrine watched him go, then felt Raoul take her hand in the dark. She turned.

‘Monsieur Baillard says he will meet you at the crossroads.’

‘I don’t want to leave you,’ he said.

‘Raoul,’ she said gently, ‘we’ve been through this. I’ll be fine for a day or two. Everyone’s here. They’ll look after me.’

‘It’s not the same.’

‘Of course it’s not,’ she said, quickly kissing him on the lips, then stepping away again. ‘But it’s important you go. You’re needed. You can’t stop fighting because of me, I couldn’t bear that.’

Raoul sighed. He reached forward and put his arms around her. Sandrine flinched, then quickly tried to cover her reaction.

‘What? Did I hurt you, did I . . .?’

‘No, it’s all right. It’s nothing.’

She couldn’t bear him to touch her. However gentle he was, however careful, she couldn’t keep the ugly memories out of her head. Laval’s hands around her neck, Authié forcing her legs apart, the thrust of hard metal, the stench of burning flesh as he pressed the poker against her back. Raoul was patient and he was understanding. But even when they lay down to sleep, the slightest movement of his skin against hers had Sandrine shaking with fear. Awake in the dark, reliving each black second she had suffered in that airless room.

She put her arms around him and held him tight. And, for a moment, she was able to make herself forget. Only for a moment.

‘Monsieur Baillard’s waiting,’ she said softly, stepping away.

‘He won’t mind,’ he said.

‘No.’

Carefully, he reached down and took her hand. ‘How many times have we done this, do you think?’

‘Done what?’

‘Said goodbye. Not knowing when we’re going to see each other again.’

‘It’s different this time,’ she said, trying to raise a smile. ‘I know where you’re going and you’ll only be gone a few days.’

‘I have a bad feeling. I don’t want to leave you.’

Sandrine smiled. ‘You always say that,’ she said. ‘You always think something’s going to go wrong, but it never does.’

Raoul didn’t answer.

‘Look, they desperately need the weapons, Raoul,’ she said firmly. ‘The longer the consignment’s left where it came down, the more likely the Gestapo will hear about it.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Well, then.’

He stared at her for a moment longer, as if trying to commit every tiny feature to memory. Then he leant forward and kissed her on the forehead.

‘I love you, you know.’

Sandrine smiled. ‘I know.’

She felt his fingers loosen their hold, then the connection between them was broken.

‘Be careful,’ she said.

‘I will. I always am.’

‘Go, then.’

This time, he did what she asked. Raoul was walking away from her, as he had done many times before. Grief suddenly overwhelmed her. Having been so desperate for him to go, Sandrine had underestimated how broken she would feel if he did.

‘Raoul!’ she called after him into the darkness.

She saw him turn and start to run, back towards her, gathering her into his arms. She hung on tight, holding him as if she would never let him go. Her skin touching his without fear, his hair against her cheek, like the very first kiss they had shared on the corner of the rue Mazagran. And now, at last, everything was forgotten but the smell of him and the feel of him and how they fitted so perfectly with one another.

‘I love you, you know,’ she said, echoing his words.

‘I know,’ he said.

Chapter 136

It had been an hour since Raoul and Monsieur Baillard had left. Sandrine leant back against the dresser, her hands in the pockets of her trousers.

‘Do you need anything?’ Marieta asked again.

‘I’m all right.’

‘Are you sure?’ Since Raoul had gone, Marieta seemed determined to take over as her guard dog.

‘Yes. I’m fine.’

‘Fine, fine,’ sang Jean-Jacques, sitting on Lucie’s lap at the table and banging a wooden spoon.

‘That’s right, J-J,’ Sandrine smiled. ‘Everybody’s fine.’

Lucie kissed the top of his head. ‘Though it is a long way past your bedtime, little man,’ she said fondly. ‘Time to go dodo.’

He immediately started wailing and tried to wriggle out of his mother’s arms.

Marieta struggled to her feet and took him from Lucie. ‘Now, none of that. Why don’t you come along like a good little boy and you can choose a story.’

Jean-Jacques immediately stopped crying. ‘Two stories?’

‘We’ll see,’ Marieta said firmly. ‘A kiss good night for Mama.’

Lucie ruffled her son’s hair. ‘Thank you, Marieta,’ she said.

‘Night, night, night.’

Marieta took Jean-Jacques’ hand to stop him waving, and led him out into the corridor. ‘Now what story shall we have, è?’

‘Two stories,’ came the same response from the stairs.

Everyone laughed.

‘A born negotiator,’ Sandrine said.

For a moment, the room was quiet. They all went back to what they’d been doing. Lucie lit a cigarette. Liesl was cleaning the inside of her camera. There was no film to be had now, not even on the marché noir, but she kept it in good working order just in case. Marianne was at the stove with Geneviève, preparing a meal.

Suzanne stood up. ‘I’m just going to check on the capitelles,’ she said. ‘The maquisards are using the larger ones to store weapons. Is there time before supper?’

Marianne nodded.

‘Do you need a hand?’ asked Eloise.

‘Thanks.’

Eloise got up too.

‘We’ll be back in ten minutes,’ Suzanne said.

Marianne went back to stirring the pan. Lucie was tapping the ash from her cigarette into the saucer and throwing increasingly anxious glances in Sandrine’s direction. She was the only one who had noticed how distressed she was when she came back inside. Sandrine avoided her gaze. What Lucie didn’t understand was how relieved she felt that Raoul was gone. Now that the initial sadness was over, it was a comfort not to have to put a brave face on things.

‘All I wanted,’ Lucie said, ‘when I was growing up, I mean, was a husband and a family. Keeping house, seeing the children off to school.’ She pulled a rueful face. ‘Saving the fact that Max isn’t here, you could nevertheless say that, out of all of us, I’ve got closest to fulfilling my ambitions.’ She looked around at her friends. ‘What about the rest of you? What did you want to be?’

Sandrine smiled at her. Over the past three weeks, she had come to admire even more than ever the way Lucie kept her spirits up. The camp at Le Vernet was almost empty. Raoul, Suzanne and Liesl had all tried to find out where Max had been sent or if he was still in the Ariège, but his name didn’t appear to be on any list. In all likelihood, because his arrest in 1942 had been unlawful. Now, of course, such distinctions were forgotten. Did Lucie still honestly believe he would come back? Sandrine didn’t know.

‘Come on,’ Lucie said, trying to get the conversation going. ‘Marianne? What about you, you must have thought about it? Headmistress of the Lycée?’

Marianne turned round and put her hand on her hip. ‘Well, yes. Though I always rather fancied teaching in a university. In Toulouse, perhaps.’

‘What would you teach?’ Sandrine asked. ‘Literature?’

Marianne shook her head. ‘Not now. I’d teach history. The truth of things.’

Sandrine nodded. ‘I think you’ll do it and be quite wonderful.’

‘Good,’ said Lucie, pleased they were joining in. ‘What about you, Liesl? You could be a pin-up, if you were minded to. Or an actress. You’ve got the looks for it.’

Geneviève laughed. The idea of Liesl, the most reserved of them all, posing for a camera in a bathing suit was ridiculous, and was meant to be. ‘No, I’ve got it,’ she said. ‘Liesl will be another Martha Gellhorn. Going all over the world, a war photographer.’

‘My father was a reporter,’ Liesl said. ‘I’d like to follow in his footsteps.’

‘You could start your own magazine,’ Lucie said, warming to her theme. ‘Then when J-J’s old enough, there’ll be a job waiting for him! How’s that for a plan? BLUM ET FILS, I can see it now!’

‘Blum and Son,’ Liesl said. ‘Keep it in the family, why not.’

‘As for you,’ Lucie said, pointing her cigarette at Sandrine, ‘you should be a politician. One of the first women to sit in de Gaulle’s provisional government. What do you say?’

Sandrine shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

‘I’d certainly vote for you, kid. I can tell you that for nothing.’

‘So would I,’ said Marianne.

Lucie nodded. ‘That’s that sorted, then.’ She turned to Geneviève. ‘Your turn. What about you?’

Geneviève pretended to think. ‘Eloise and I could start a chain of shops,’ she said. ‘A general store selling clothes and food, anything anyone wants. SAINT-LOUP AND SISTER, I can picture the sign.’

‘Sisters,’ said Eloise, coming back into the kitchen with Suzanne. ‘We’ve got Coralie and Aurélie to think about too.’

Suzanne washed her hands at the sink, then shook the water off before sitting down.

‘What’s all this?’

‘Lucie’s organising our lives for us,’ Marianne said. ‘What we’re going to do when the war is over.’

‘So we do have rather a problem with you, Suzanne,’ Liesl laughed. ‘Not much call for lady bomb-makers in peacetime.’

‘Even though I am the best,’ Suzanne said, putting on a silly voice. ‘The acknowledged master.’

‘Or should that be “mistress”?’ Geneviève suggested.

Lucie raised her eyebrows. ‘No, that’s altogether something else.’

Everyone burst into gales of laughter, until Marieta banged angrily on the floor from upstairs and they all had to be quiet again for fear of waking Jean-Jacques.

Chapter 137

‘Supper’s nearly ready,’ Marianne said. ‘Do you want me to wait until Marieta comes down or serve up now?’

Sandrine took a deep breath. She had been working out how to say what she needed to say.

‘In fact, while Marieta’s upstairs, I want to talk to everyone.’

Immediately, the atmosphere sharpened. Liesl put the camera down. Marianne took the pan of ratatouille off the stove and covered it with a cloth, then she and Geneviève joined the others at the table. Lucie turned round in her chair and looked enquiringly at Sandrine.

‘We made a mistake in not going through with our attack on Authié in La Cité,’ she said.

Lucie frowned. ‘It wouldn’t have worked, kid. They knew all about it.’

Sandrine carried on. ‘Then Raoul didn’t realise it was him – Authié – in the car. With me. If he had, he would have shot him then. It was another missed opportunity.’

‘His job was to get you away,’ Suzanne said firmly, ‘and he did. Neither of you have anything to reproach yourselves for.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s how it goes.’

‘Other people have borne the burden of our failure,’ Sandrine continued. ‘And now . . .’ She stopped, looked down at the little finger on her left hand, crooked from where Laval had broken it. ‘Authié is looking for Monsieur Baillard and the Codex. We have to try again.’

Liesl frowned. ‘I have a great regard for Monsieur Baillard, but surely we should concentrate our strength on things that matter. That are real. Like trying to find Max.’

‘I agree,’ said Lucie.

‘And you can’t possibly be contemplating going back to Carcassonne,’ Marianne added. ‘You’d never get anywhere near him.’

Sandrine glanced at Eloise and Geneviève and knew they would support her. For all their modern clothes and habits, they were as rooted to the timeless ways of the mountains as Marieta or Monsieur Baillard himself. Myths and realities, they saw no contradiction.

‘Not Carcassonne,’ she said. She hesitated, then continued. ‘I appreciate that this will sound absurd, after all the trouble we’ve taken to stay hidden, but . . .’ she paused again, ‘we need to entice Authié here.’

Marianne, Suzanne and Liesl all immediately started to argue. Sandrine raised her voice.

‘Listen. We have the advantage here. We know the terrain. We can choose the time and place of attack. We will evacuate the village, it will be us against him.’

Marianne was shaking her head. ‘But he could bring hundreds of men with him. It’s absurd. The odds are completely against us.’

Not if Monsieur Baillard is right, Sandrine thought, but she knew better than to say so.

‘What does Raoul think of your idea?’ Lucie asked.

Sandrine hesitated. ‘He doesn’t know about it,’ she admitted. ‘He doesn’t think I should do anything.’

‘And he’s right,’ Marianne said. ‘You’re not strong enough.’

For a moment, no one spoke.

‘You know,’ Suzanne said, ‘it might work. If we make sure we clear everyone out, then lure him here, it might just work. If the rumours are true, if some of the German units are pulling out, then he’s hardly going to be able to muster much support.’

Marianne turned on her. ‘How can you say that? You saw what that monster did to her. When Raoul brought her here I didn’t think she’d survive. But she’s strong, she refused to give in. We kept her safe.’ She stopped, her voice cracking. ‘For three weeks we’ve hidden her from Authié, from Laval – for two years before that. Everyone says the Allies will come. That the Germans are getting ready to withdraw. We should wait.’

‘It’s because of what he did to her that we have to do this,’ Suzanne said softly. ‘Can’t you see?’

Marianne looked at Sandrine. ‘Is Suzanne right? Is that what this is about? Revenge?’

Sandrine thought for a moment before she spoke. ‘No, it’s about justice,’ she said. ‘It’s about not looking away, about standing up against tyranny. About not spending the rest of our lives in hiding.’ She paused, then added softly. ‘And it’s about making sure that Authié will never again be able to do to someone else what he did to me.’

Marianne stared, now with tears in her eyes, then sat back in her chair. She looked defeated.

Suzanne reached over and covered her hand with her own. ‘Come on,’ she murmured.

Lucie and Liesl exchanged glances. Geneviève and Eloise both looked at Sandrine and waited.

‘What’s your plan?’ Lucie asked.

Sandrine glanced at Marianne, then explained. ‘We attack the electricity substation in Couiza. Tomorrow, or the day after. It’s not guarded and it’s far enough away from both the Maquis camp and any houses not to cause difficulties for anyone else. It’s an ideal target. We deliver a letter to the Milice in Limoux denouncing it as the work of “Citadel” – that should make it certain the news will get back to Carcassonne.’

‘I can take it,’ Eloise said.

‘If you, Geneviève, could spread the same story in Couiza?’

Geneviève nodded. ‘Nothing easier.’

Liesl was still unconvinced. ‘I agree with Marianne. I don’t think we can be sure Authié will come in person, or when. And what if he brings a huge force with him? We’ll be heavily outnumbered.’

Sandrine met her gaze. ‘He thinks I have the Codex,’ she said. ‘He will come.’

For a moment, the word hung in the air like a challenge. Sandrine knew that Marianne, in particular, hated her to talk about the Codex.

‘If we allow a day for the information to get from Limoux to Carcassonne,’ Sandrine said quickly, ‘then for Authié to react, my estimate is the earliest he would get to Coustaussa would be the twentieth of August.’

‘Sounds about right,’ Suzanne said.

‘You’ve no way of knowing for sure,’ Marianne said.

‘No,’ Sandrine conceded. ‘But if Eloise stays in Limoux, unless Authié takes a very indirect route, she’ll hear when they pass through. We’ll have advance warning. That will give us enough time to evacuate Coustaussa and get everyone out of harm’s way.’

‘It will be a ghost village,’ Lucie said. ‘Just them and us.’

Sandrine glanced at her. She couldn’t know, but it was almost as if Lucie guessed what she and Monsieur Baillard were planning. She held Lucie’s gaze for a moment, then looked round the room.

‘So, what do you say?’

One by one, each woman nodded. Only her sister did not answer.

‘Marianne?’

‘There’s so much that could go wrong. You’re gambling on your guesses – about the date, about the numbers Authié brings with him – being accurate. You could be right, you could be utterly wrong, but . . . I understand.’ She stopped again and sighed. ‘So, yes. I don’t like it, but of course I’ll help.’

Sandrine smiled. ‘Thank you,’ she said softly.

Marianne pushed her chair back from the table and walked over to the stove. ‘Now, we should eat. The food will spoil.’

After the tension of the conversation, the atmosphere became light-hearted as they brought everything to the table. Geneviève helped Marianne carry the two large serving dishes – one a casserole, one of ratatouille – and glasses were clattered out of the cupboard. Liesl and Suzanne cleared the papers.

Sandrine had no appetite and she was exhausted. Unobtrusively, she slipped out of the kitchen and on to the terrace. She could still hear the others laughing and joking, but she had no energy left.

‘Ladies, please,’ Geneviève was saying, ‘you shouldn’t mock. My milicien is a good catch, or so my mother’s always telling me. A widower, his own teeth! Most of them, at any rate . . .’

Sandrine let her thoughts drift away. The girls’ voices became fainter until she could no longer make out word from word. She let the scent of the sweet wild lavender and rosemary in the garrigue, the sound of the cicadas and the singing of the birds of the night, nightingales and owls, wash over her.

She thought of her father and was surprised to feel tears pricking her eyes. It had been so long. Since her interrogation, she had not been able to cry. She feared that if she gave way, even for a moment, she would shatter into a thousand pieces and never stop. So she kept her emotions wrapped tightly inside.

‘To “Citadel”,’ said Lucie in the kitchen.

‘To the chef,’ said Suzanne firmly. ‘To Marianne.’

Sandrine heard the clink of glasses and the thump of the pinard on the table, then Liesl’s voice floating out on to the terrace.

‘Where did Sandrine go? Did she turn in already?’

Sandrine closed her eyes and let the darkness hide her.

Chapter 138

ALET-LES-BAINS

‘Is that it?’ Raoul asked.

He had worked all night with the men from the Salvezines Maquis, moving the heavy cylindrical drums containing weapons parts, maps and ammunition, the twelve kilometres from where they’d been dropped in error to the makeshift camp above the Gorges de Cascabel near Alet-les-Bains.

‘That’s the lot, yes.’

Raoul wiped his forehead and neck with his handkerchief, then jumped down from the cart and patted the donkey’s neck. ‘He’s worked as hard as any of us,’ he said. ‘Where did you get him?’

The maquisard shrugged. ‘Who knows?’ he said, then held out his hand. ‘Thanks for your help, comrade.’

Raoul shook the man’s hand. From fragments overheard, he’d worked out that a strike was intended in the next couple of days. He wondered if Sandrine had heard anything about it.

Straight away, Raoul felt the same tightening of the chest he now always had when thinking about Sandrine. If he’d been able, he would have put her on a plane and taken her across the world. To America or England, somewhere away from the war-torn, divided Midi. Then he shook his head. Even if he had all the money in the world, Sandrine wouldn’t leave. She’d never run away. She’d stay and fight to the bitter end. His expression hardened. Whatever else Authié had done, he hadn’t crushed her spirit. She was still as stubborn and determined as ever.

The light was just coming up. Raoul felt an unaccustomed sense of peace as he looked around the glade, recognising some of the men with whom he’d worked. They’d been in pairs, carrying and loading, never all together until now. Most of them looked like he felt. A little dazed from lack of sleep, tired, sharing a bottle of beer or a pouch of tobacco. Relieved that it had all gone off all right. No raid, no shooting, no sirens.

No one dead.

One of the maquisards had set a charcoal fire to burn in the centre of the clearing. Two rabbits were roasting on a spit, breakfast for the men before everyone went their separate ways. On the far side of the fire, Raoul noticed Coralie Saint-Loup’s fiancé sitting on a log rolling a cigarette.

‘Got any going spare?’ Raoul asked, sitting down beside him, struggling to remember what he was called. Some old-fashioned village name.

‘Sure.’ The young man handed over the pouch. ‘Help yourself.’

‘How’s Coralie? I heard you got married.’

‘Expecting our first, he said. ‘I don’t know, it doesn’t seem right, bringing a kid into all this mess, but life goes on, I suppose. It’s what she wanted.’

Raoul nodded.

‘If it’s a boy, we’ll call him Alphonse.’

Raoul sighed. ‘After you,’ he said, remembering.

‘And my father and his father before him. Family tradition. If it’s a girl, Coralie wants to call her Vivien. After that film actress.’ He shrugged. ‘Can’t say I like it much, funny sort of name. What about you? Still with the same girl?’

‘I am.’

‘Married?’

‘We haven’t got round to it yet,’ he said, ‘but we will. As soon as all this is over.’

‘They say the Germans are pulling out. Do you think it’s true?’

‘I don’t know,’ Raoul said.

For a moment, they sat in silence in the still dawn air, both smoking, passing a tin cup of coarse red mountain wine between them, the smell of the game roasting on the fire curling up into the air.

‘Are you going with the others?’ Alphonse asked, dropping his voice.

‘Going where?’

The boy looked alarmed that he’d spoken out of turn, then decided Raoul could be trusted.

‘There’s a few going to try and catch up with the ghost train,’ he said, lowering his voice even more. ‘See if they can hold it up until the Allies get here.’

Raoul turned to look at him. Like everyone, he had heard rumours about the train fantôme. The last remaining Jewish prisoners in Le Vernet were alleged to have been loaded on to a train bound for Dachau. Lucie’s fiancé should have been one of them, but his name wasn’t on the list. And because Raoul had been caring for Sandrine, he realised he didn’t know if Liesl or Lucie had ever found out where Max actually was. The train had passed through Toulouse on the thirtieth of July, going towards Bordeaux, then north. Thanks to the Allied advance, though, it had been turned back again.

‘Where is it now?’ Raoul asked.

Alphonse shook his head. ‘Heading towards the south-east, so I’ve heard. Provence, maybe. That could be the best chance of getting them free. They say the Allies are going to attack from the Mediterranean.’

Raoul swallowed another mouthful of wine, thinking hard. He wanted to go back to Coustaussa immediately. He’d hated leaving Sandrine, even though he knew she was in safe hands. But he remembered what she’d said to him last night – that she wouldn’t be able to bear it if he stopped fighting because of her. More than that, what would she think of him if he’d had a chance to save Max – assuming Max was even on the train – and hadn’t taken it? Raoul knew she still blamed herself for not intervening when Max was arrested in Carcassonne. It weighed on her mind. This might be a practical way of paying that debt for her. It was one way he could make things easier for her.

‘Are you going?’ he asked Alphonse.

The boy shook his head. ‘I’d like to, but not with the baby due any day now. Wouldn’t be fair on Coralie.’

Raoul patted his pockets, trousers and jacket, until he found a pencil.

‘Got anything to write on?’ he said quickly. ‘Anything at all?’

Alphonse looked in his own pockets and came up with a notification for a doctor’s appointment. He glanced at the date, saw it had already passed and handed it over.

Raoul quickly scribbled a note for Sandrine, telling her what he was going to do and promising to be back within the week. He hesitated, still in two minds, then folded it and gave it to Alphonse.

‘Can you pass this to Coralie,’ he said urgently, ‘and tell her to get it to Geneviève or Eloise. It’s very important she delivers it. Very important indeed. Just to let them know where I am.’

The boy nodded and put it in his pocket.

‘Do you know who’s in charge?’ Raoul asked.

‘He’s the one I heard talking about it,’ Alphonse said, pointing out a tall, lanky man with sandy-coloured hair.

Raoul stood up and held out his hand. ‘Good luck with the baby,’ he said.

‘Come to the christening, if you like,’ Alphonse said.

‘I might just do that,’ Raoul replied.

Then he crossed the wood and went to introduce himself, still thinking of how pleased Sandrine would be if he could come back with good news about Max after all this time.

Twenty minutes later, he was in a truck heading north on the unpatrolled back roads towards Carcassonne.

Alphonse walked slowly along the stony bank of the Aude back towards Couiza. The river was silver in the early morning light and the foam of the current tumbled and eddied white over the low rocks.

He reached a point where the bank disappeared and the water was deeper. He hesitated a moment, then decided to climb up to the road. He was sure he could avoid any Wehrmacht trucks or SS cars. There was so little traffic on the road, he’d hear anything coming from several kilometres away. He was pleased to be carrying a note to Coralie. She said she didn’t mind, but Alphonse thought she was too often in the shadow of her older sisters, who always knew everything first. It would be nice for Coralie to be the one with information for a change.

Alphonse tripped over a log and bashed his shin. He fell forward on to the road and cried out in pain before he could stop himself. He gave a deep sigh, then heard the sound of a safety catch.

‘Levez les mains.’

As he started to put his hands up, he saw the flash of a blue Milice beret and panicked. The woods were dense behind him. He hesitated a moment. Wouldn’t it be better to make a run for it?

He turned and charged back down the slope towards the cover of the beech trees. He heard a bullet fly over his head and embed itself in a tree. Then another shot. He kept running, back down towards the river.

It took him an instant before he realised he’d been hit. He pulled up, suddenly short of breath, then a second bullet hit him in the back and he fell, face forward, into the water.

‘Vivien, what a name . . .’ he muttered to himself.

He started to choke. Blood spurted out of his mouth, turning the silver waters of the Aude red. Raoul’s note fell into the river and was carried away unread.

Chapter 139

COUIZA

Sandrine rubbed her temples. She had her usual pre-operation headache, the period of counting down to zero hour. She rolled her shoulders, wincing as the skin around her burns stretched sore. She took several deep breaths, trying to calm herself down. The plan was almost identical to Berriac. The same signs, the same systems. When she’d come down to it, Sandrine had found herself unable to think of anything new.

In two days, there had been no word from Raoul. No word from Monsieur Baillard. She told herself it wasn’t any different from any other mission they’d done, but it was her first since coming back to Coustaussa.

Her first since she knew what it was like to be caught.

‘Blow the whistle twice if you see anyone coming. Three short blasts if you hear a vehicle – car, motorcycle, petrolette, anything.’

Liesl nodded.

‘Twice for a person,’ Sandrine repeated, ‘three for any kind of vehicle.’

‘I know,’ Liesl said quietly.

Sandrine looked at her watch. Seven forty-five.

Lucie and Marieta were at home with Jean-Jacques. Marianne was on lookout, watching the road from the south. Suzanne was covering the bridge and Geneviève was making her way towards the electricity substation with a basket packed with explosives. It had worked in Berriac, so why wouldn’t it work again?

She looked at her watch again. Seven fifty.

‘I’m going now,’ she whispered to Liesl. ‘Don’t forget, if anyone comes, whistle. We don’t want anyone hurt. If all goes to plan, when you hear the blast, leave straight away.’

‘I know,’ Liesl said patiently.

Sandrine came out of the shadow of the empty chicken coops. She felt as if she couldn’t breathe. There was no one about. At the war memorial, a black and white dog, scruffy, thin, sat as if guarding the dead.

‘Good boy,’ she whispered. It was rare to see an animal nowadays and the last thing she wanted was for the mongrel to bark, alerting the village to her presence.

Sandrine reached the small, colourful house in the far corner. Suzanne had identified the porch as a good spot to wait, not least because the owners were away. Or detained.

She checked the time again.

‘Three minutes,’ she murmured to herself. ‘Three minutes.’

At eight o’clock, the bells began to ring. Perfectly on time, Geneviève came into view. She walked towards the substation, put the basket against the door and carried on up the track without breaking her stride.

Sandrine waited until she was out of sight, then stepped forward. She lifted the red and white tablecloth, located the fuse in the jumble of wires and pipe, then tried to strike the match. Her hand was shaking so badly that it guttered, flared, and went out. Sandrine took another, scraped it along the strip, and, holding her right hand in her left, this time, the flame held steady. Tonight she felt no satisfaction at the hiss of the cord, only relief.

She gave it two seconds, to check it had taken, then made it out to the track behind the vegetable gardens before the bomb went off. She experienced a vivid flashback to Berriac, remembering how exhilarated she had felt that night. Now she felt nothing but fear and loathing for the things she had to do.

She started to run, but a sharp, jagged pain in her lower abdomen forced her to stop. She doubled over, feeling the heavy, dull drag, and knew she was bleeding again. She waited as long as she dared, then carried on. The hope that Raoul might have returned was what got her up the hill.

Liesl and Marianne were waiting for her, both safe, as was Geneviève. There had been no word from Eloise, but no reason to think anything had gone wrong there either.

‘And Raoul?’

‘Nothing so far,’ Marianne said quietly.

‘He’ll be back,’ Lucie said.

Marieta made her a glass of lime tea with plenty of saccharine, then helped her with her bloodied clothes. Lucie sat with her until she went to sleep.

Chapter 140

CARCASSONNE

Carcassonne was in darkness as Raoul made his way along the Canal du Midi.

He’d got out of the truck on the Villegly road. From there, it had been a short tramp over the hill to come down into the Bastide via the cimetière Saint-Vincent. He had not thought to be back in Carcassonne so soon and, now that Sandrine was no longer here, he was shocked at how alien the city seemed to him.

Below him, boulevard Omer Sarraut – where he had lifted Sandrine’s broken body from the panier à salade – was silent. Even now, Raoul could hardly bare to look at it. All he saw was her bruised face and her branded skin and the blood dripping from the leather of the seats on to the floor of Robert Bonnet’s car.

He stopped to catch his breath for a moment. Was Robert still alive? Gaston? Or Dr Giraud, who had saved Sandrine’s life? What about Aimé Ramond and Jean Bringer? He had not even had time to grieve for his mother. Raoul shook his head. Trying to clear his mind. There would be time to mourn, for those taken or lost, but not now.

The blackness made it easy for him to make his way unobserved towards the offices of the railway transportation department. Although it was being called the ghost train, the truth was that there were records. Every stretch of the line, every day the prisoners spent confined to the cattle trucks, was written down. All Raoul needed to do was find the information and let his comrades know. Then, at least, they would have a chance of delaying the transport.

He climbed the embankment and crawled out over the line. There was no hum of metal. The gravel between the tracks cracked and crunched, but no one seemed to hear. Raoul stepped over one sleeper, then the next, like a child playing a game in the schoolyard. He was surprised there was no patrol, but assumed perhaps that the Gestapo – that Authié – were concentrating their attention closer to the station buildings.

Without too much difficulty, Raoul located the station master’s office at the far end of the westbound platform. Even in the dark, the plaque seemed to gleam: CHEF DE GARE.

The door was solid oak. There was no way of breaking it without making enough noise to get the guards running all the way from the Caserne Laperrine. Instead, Raoul climbed on to the metal bench beneath a small window and reached his hand up. The catch had been left à l’espagnolette, to allow a shaving of cool air in, so it wasn’t difficult to lever the fastening up with his hunting knife.

He slithered through, head first, then lowered himself carefully down to the tiled floor. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could make out the metal filing cabinets in the corner of the room and the huge leather-bound diary in pride of place on the station master’s desk.

He struck a match and turned the pages, looking for today’s date. There was nothing recorded. He frowned, then turned the pages back, looking for something that might tell him where the train had been, at least, if not where it was going.

After a few minutes, he found it. A list of names, Max Blum among them, and an hour-by-hour record of how the prisoners from Le Vernet were to be transported up the eastern border. Through Provence to Bourgogne, then into Lorraine and on to Bavaria in southern Germany. Heading for Dachau.

Raoul leant forward and traced the route with his finger. This was all he needed. If they moved quickly, they could position themselves to block the line and stop the train moving forward. If the rumours were true and the Allies were launching a second attack from the sea, then all they had to do was delay the train.

He put the spent match in his pocket, imagining Sandrine’s face when he told her – and her pleasure at being able to explain to Lucie and to Liesl what had happened. He moved a chair beneath the window and had put his hands on the sill, ready to pull himself up, when without warning the door was flung open. Raoul went for his gun as the electric light was switched on.

‘Halten Sie.’

His heart hammering in his chest, he turned slowly around. Four against one, Gestapo. He put his hands above his head.

‘Come down.’

Raoul had no choice but to do as he was told.

‘Name?’ one of the Germans barked.

Raoul didn’t answer.

‘Your name?’ he said again, shouting this time.

Raoul met his gaze.

The Nazi stared at him, then so quickly that Raoul didn’t even see it coming, he raised his rifle and swung it into the side of Raoul’s head.

Chapter 141

TARASCON

Audric Baillard sat at the table with the Codex before him. The shutters were open and the light of the moon came in through the window and lit the beautiful letters of the ancient Coptic script. He let his thin white hand hover over the papyrus, his skin mottled with age, then withdrew it again.

The story of its long journey was finally clear in his mind. Arinius had smuggled the Codex from the community in Lyon to the mountains. Baillard suspected it was not the only version of the text. There were rumours about excavations in Egypt close to the Jabal al-Tarif cliffs, not far from the settlement of Nag Hammadi. He thought of his old friend Harif, dead many years now. It was Harif who’d taught him to understand the ancient languages of Egypt – Coptic and Demotic, hieroglyphs – and had told him of the network of some hundred and fifty caves on the west bank of the Nile two days’ ride north of Luxor, used as graves. A hiding place too? A secret library entombed in the rocks?

Baillard wished he knew what had happened to Arinius himself. Had he lived to make old bones? Had he remained close by, keeping watch over the Codex? Had it lain here undisturbed for hundreds of years until called upon by Dame Carcas to drive the invaders from the walls of La Cité?

He knew that the border regions in the fourth century had been violent, lawless places. Whole tribes decimated and villages put to the sword. But had Arinius’ settlement survived? Part of it, at least? Eloise and Geneviève Saint-Loup – Sandrine and Marianne Vidal too – were descended from those early Tarasconnais Christian families. The iridescent glass bottle containing the map that had been passed down from hand to hand to hand was proof of that. And even though Baillard now knew that the map had been bought by Otto Rahn from Monsieur Saint-Loup – when he’d been forced to sell the family possessions – Rahn, in turn, had sent it to Antoine Déjean in 1939, thereby returning the map to the land from whence it had come.

Baillard closed his ears to the noise of the world and lifted his eyes to the mountains, picturing in his mind’s eye the dark path he would take up to the Pic de Vicdessos. He believed that the power of the words would be strongest spoken there, where they had lain safe for so long.

There was a tap on the door. He stood up. Leaving the cedarwood box on the table, he placed the Codex in one pocket and his revolver in the other, then stepped out to join Guillaume Breillac.

‘Any word from Eloise?’ Baillard asked. He knew the young man was worried about his wife.

‘Not yet, sénher,’ Guillaume replied.

‘It is only a matter of time, I am sure.’

Guillaume didn’t answer.

Codex XXII

GAUL

TARASCO

AUGUST AD 344

The invading army attacked at dawn. From the cover of the trees, they began to beat their swords against their shields. They shouted strange and foreign battle cries. The ground started to shudder beneath their stamping feet as grey smoke twisted up into the blue sky and across the face of the rising August sun.

‘There are so many, peyre,’ said one of the youngest men nervously.

‘They are making noise to make you think they are more numerous than they really are,’ Arinius replied, although he didn’t know if it was true. ‘They want to scare us.’

‘I’m not frightened,’ the boy said immediately.

‘Nor should you be,’ said Lupa. ‘Not when God is on our side.’

The boy nodded and tightened his grip around the club in his right hand, though Arinius saw his left steal into Lupa’s. She smiled down at the child and he saw how her courage and calm strengthened him.

‘Why don’t they advance?’ she said.

‘They hope to weaken our spirit by delaying.’

‘Can you see anything?’

‘Not yet.’

The shouting and the beating of the shields continued. Arinius looked along the line, seeing the boy’s fear reflected in the faces, young and old, of the men of Tarasco. But his wife’s expression was steadfast. She saw him smiling.

‘What was it that you hid within the mountains?’ she said quietly. ‘So important that it all but cost you your life?’

Arinius stared at her. In the two years he had loved her, she had never asked what had brought him to Tarasco. She had never asked what he had been doing in the Vallée des Trois Loups. Never asked why he wore the green bottle like a talisman round his neck, nor what he had placed inside it.

‘Did you think I did not know?’ she said gently. ‘Why else do you think there are stories of the mountains being haunted except to keep those with sharp eyes and quick fingers away from the box?’

‘You have seen it?’

Lupa had the grace to blush. ‘At the very beginning, before I knew you. I was curious.’

Arinius looked at her fierce, intelligent face, then he smiled.

‘It contains a precious text, a codex, stolen away from the library in Lugdunum. It is considered a heresy by the Abbot, but I believe future generations will see it differently.’

‘You have not read it yourself?’

‘It is a language I do not understand,’ he said, ‘though there are some phrases I have heard spoken.’

‘What do they promise?’

‘That when the words are spoken aloud, in a place that is sacred – and by one prepared to give his life so that others might live – death is conquered. That the quick and the dead will stand side by side. An army of spirits.’

Lupa frowned. ‘Must he who speaks the words die? Or only be prepared to give his life for others?’

Arinius shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

Lupa thought for a moment longer. ‘And only the good may see this?’

Arinius paused. ‘We each see what we deserve to see. So you, my brave, courageous Lupa, would see spirits, angels. Men with dark hearts will be brought face to face with the worst of their fears.’

‘I think God is with us all the same, Arinius.’

‘As do I.’

‘Will you teach me the words you know?’

Arinius looked at her. ‘Why?’

‘I would like to know them,’ she said simply.

He looked at her a moment longer, then whispered softly the few phrases he had heard spoken by his brother monk. Lupa listened, her face lit up with the beauty of what she was hearing. When he had finished, she put her hand upon his arm and smiled.

For an instant they stood together, forgetting everything but one another for a moment.

Then a roar went up from the woods below and, suddenly, the invaders broke out from the cover of the trees. At his side, he heard Lupa catch her breath. They were outnumbered seven to one, perhaps more.

‘May God protect us,’ he said.

Arinius drew his sword and let out an answering shout of his own. At his side, he felt Lupa steel herself. She drew her knife from her belt, looked at him one last time. Then, together, they ran forward into the fray.

Chapter 142

CARCASSONNE

AUGUST 1944

‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.’

It was Friday the eighteenth of August and the cathédrale Saint-Michel was empty so early in the morning. Except for him and the priest, there was no one. Authié had insisted upon it. He did not wish there to be any possibility of someone overhearing his confession.

He had chosen to kneel rather than sit. He could feel the chill of the stone seeping through the knees of his trousers, comfortingly austere. His hands were loose by his sides and he felt a deep peace and power in the rightness of his cause. He believed it was how the crusaders of old might have felt. Holy warriors pursuing a just and holy war.

In a matter of days, it would be over. Sandrine Vidal had made a fool of him twice. She had defeated him twice: the first time through her lies, the second time through her silence. He knew the Gestapo officers, even Laval, admired how she had withstood the interrogation and still not talked. Few men lasted so long.

Authié did not admire her. Like the Inquisitors of old who felt no pity for those who chose to defy the teachings of the Church, he knew there was no honour in disobedience. By her actions, Vidal defied scripture and allowed heresy to flourish. The fact that she might not possess the Codex was no longer of relevance to him. She had collaborated with the enemies of the Church, had helped them. That was enough.

She might have escaped, but she would not stay at liberty for long.

‘I have dissembled and lied for the purpose of bringing the enemies of the Church into plain view,’ he said. ‘I have consorted with those who deny God. I have neglected my spiritual salvation.’ He paused. ‘I am sorry for these and all the sins of my past life.’

As Authié catalogued his sins of commission and of omission, he felt the wordless horror of the priest from behind the grille. Could smell the man’s fear, rank on his skin and his breath.

‘In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit,’ the priest said, stumbling over the words of absolution.

‘Amen.’

Authié made the sign of the cross, then stood up.

He took his gun from his belt and fired through the mesh. The world turned red, blood staining the metal and the curtains and the worn, old wood. Authié came out, genuflected to the high altar, then walked back down the nave.

The secrets of the confessional. Everyone talked in the end.

Sylvère Laval looked up and then down rue Voltaire, into the cross streets and over the garden in front of the cathedral. For Authié’s security, he had put a police block on the road at both ends; even so it was possible a car might come out of nowhere. But, after the latest raids, which had finally caught the leadership of the Resistance in Carcassonne, the streets had been quieter.

Laval glanced at the west door, wondering how much more time his commanding officer was going to waste. He couldn’t complain. Authié’s obsession had served Laval well and he had become rich on the back of Authié’s links with the Church in Chartres. But now things were coming to an end. Laval intended to tell Authié what he had discovered about Citadel, but keep from him the fact that he had found Audric Baillard. Although Baillard had not been seen since the late summer of 1942, one of their informers in Tarascon had reported that a retired police inspector had an old man staying with him. Since it was common knowledge Pujol and Baillard had been friends, Laval had put two and two together.

The Allies had landed in Provence. The Germans were preparing to withdraw from the Midi. If Laval was to go with them, he had to get the Codex in the next twenty-four hours.

Laval heard footsteps on the pavement and turned, the list in his hand. As Authié got closer, Laval saw he had blood on his face.

‘We’ve found Vidal, sir,’ he said.

Authié stopped dead. ‘Where is she?’

‘Coustaussa,’ Laval replied. ‘Seven or eight of them, all women. It’s all here. The réseau “Citadel”.’

Authié snatched the paper and ran his eyes down the names. ‘Vidal, Peyre, Ménard . . .’ He broke off. ‘Who’s Liesl Vidal? Have we come across her?’

‘It seems she’s been living in Coustaussa with the housekeeper, Marieta Barthès. They put it about she’s a cousin from Paris, but I think she might be Blum’s sister.’

‘The Jew Ménard visited in Le Vernet?’

‘Yes. He had a sister who vanished, about the right sort of age.’

Authié looked back at the list. ‘Who’s this Eloise Breillac?’

‘She’s the sister of Geneviève Saint-Loup, who’s also part of the network. Breillac was arrested in the Hôtel Moderne et Pigeon in Limoux.’

Authié was nodding. ‘This is good work, Laval. Where did you get this information?’

‘It seems Liesl Vidal – Blum – has taken up with a local boy, Yves Rousset. Another chap felt edged out, wanted to get back at them. Talked to one of his friends in the Milice in Couiza. The links between them started to show up on various lists. Rousset’s with the Couiza Maquis. It all fell into place from there.’

‘Is Pelletier with them?’

‘Not so far as I’ve been able to find out, sir.’

‘What about Baillard? Have you managed to track him down.’

‘Baillard’s file is incomplete. I haven’t been able to locate him.’

Authié stared, then shrugged. ‘Keep trying. I would like to have something to tell Monsieur de l’Oradore.’ He paused. ‘You’ve done well, Laval.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, opening the car door.

Chapter 143

COUSTAUSSA

Sandrine rubbed her forehead. Her headache was bad again. ‘I don’t like it. We should have heard something by now.’

‘I’m sure he’ll be all right,’ Lucie said quickly.

‘Not Raoul,’ Sandrine said sharply. She was sick with worry about where he was, but was pretending not to be. She hated the way Lucie and the others kept looking anxiously at her all the time. A mixture of concern and pity.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I meant Eloise, not Raoul. It’s been three days.’

‘But he’s—’

‘I expected a message from Limoux,’ Sandrine pressed on.

‘There was an attack on a convoy in the Gorges de Cascabel the day before yesterday,’ Suzanne said. ‘They’re probably dealing with that.’

‘Any casualties?’

‘An American died. Don’t know about anyone else.’

‘Does it make it less or more likely that Authié will come?’ Lucie said.

Suzanne shrugged. ‘Impossible to say.’

‘What do you want to do?’ Liesl asked. ‘Should we evacuate the village just in case? Or wait.’

The nineteenth of August, Sandrine thought. Nearly a week since Raoul had left, and she’d heard nothing. Nothing, either, from Monsieur Baillard to let her know he was in position in the Pic de Vicdessos.

‘Sandrine?’ said Marianne with concern.

‘What do you want us to do?’ Liesl repeated.

Sandrine took a deep breath and forced herself to concentrate. She had to wait for Monsieur Baillard.

‘Wait, for one more day at least. If we evacuate everyone now, and nothing happens, they’ll be less likely to leave their homes a second time.’

Liesl nodded, then looked round. ‘Where’s Geneviève?’

‘Couiza,’ Sandrine said.

‘Didn’t we agree we’d steer clear of Couiza for the time being?’

‘Yes, but do you remember, her younger sister Coralie is expecting a baby? Since Eloise hasn’t come back yet, she felt she ought to look in.’

Sandrine turned to Lucie. ‘But perhaps you should go with Marieta and Jean-Jacques this morning? Out of harm’s way.’

‘J-J will be happy with Marieta in Rennes-les-Bains,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m staying. I want to do my bit.’ Lucie was pale and she was clearly rattled, but her eyes glinted with determination.

‘Are you sure?’ Sandrine asked.

‘Quite sure.’

Sandrine and Suzanne exchanged a glance. Then Suzanne stood up.

‘If you want to help, you’d better come with me.’

‘Go with you where?’

‘Do you know how to handle a gun?’

Lucie turned even whiter. ‘No.’

‘Well then. Time to learn.’

‘Are you sure we’re doing the right thing bringing Authié here?’ Marianne said softly.

Sandrine shook her head. ‘No. But it’s too late to stop it now.’

COUIZA

Geneviève rushed to the sink to fetch a glass of water, then back to the table. Coralie and Alphonse’s flat was tiny and airless. Every window was closed and the shutters were latched shut.

‘What’s wrong?’ she said nervously. ‘Have you started, do you think? Is that it?’

Coralie was red-faced and gasping for air. She seemed to be in shock. Her stomach was rising and falling at a rapid rate and Geneviève was terrified she would go into labour before the midwife arrived.

‘Come on,’ she said, pressing the glass into Coralie’s hand. ‘It can’t be good for the baby for you to get so worked up.’

Gradually Coralie’s breathing steadied, but she was still in a dreadful state. Geneviève wasn’t sure if she was frightened about the thought of the baby coming or something else. She didn’t know how long her sister had been like this.

‘That’s better,’ she said, taking the empty glass. ‘Good girl.’ She felt Coralie’s pulse. It was rattling along. ‘Now, what set this off?’

Coralie stared blankly at her, as if she hadn’t even heard.

‘Coralie,’ Geneviève said sharply, waving her hand in front of her sister’s face. There was no reaction. ‘Where’s Alphonse?’ she said.

Coralie suddenly let out a single wail. A high-pitched keening, a sound barely human.

‘Coralie, stop. You’ll make yourself ill. Tell me where to find Alphonse and I’ll fetch him.’

Her sister clamped her hand over her mouth. Geneviève looked at her, at a loss to understand what was going on.

‘Good girl,’ she said cautiously. ‘That’s better.’

Coralie took a deep breath. ‘Dead.’

Geneviève stared at her sister, then quickly placed her hand on Coralie’s stomach and held it there until she felt movement. She let out a sigh of relief.

‘No, the baby’s fine. They go quiet just before they come. Remember when Aurélie was born?’

‘Not the baby,’ Coralie said in a flat voice. ‘Alphonse.’

‘What?’ she said in disbelief. ‘No, he can’t be dead.’

‘On the Alet road. Found his body in the river.’

Geneviève shook her head, struggling to make sense of what her sister was saying. Was it true?

‘The plane dropped the weapons in the wrong place. He went to help.’

Geneviève turned cold. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought that was where Raoul had gone too. Was that why he hadn’t come back? Had they all been caught or killed?

She put her arm around her sister’s shoulders and felt her begin to cry.

‘Hush,’ she murmured. ‘Hush now.’

‘They came to tell me. Four of them.’

‘Who?’

‘Gestapo?’

Geneviève caught her breath. ‘When?’

Coralie didn’t answer. ‘They asked about you and Eloise. Wanted to know about Sandrine. Asked if it was true she lived in a house called Citadelle.’

‘What did you say?’

‘That I didn’t know,’ she said. She looked up. ‘That was right, wasn’t it? They were going to arrest me, but they saw how far gone I was. Let me be.’ She started to cry again. ‘What am I going to do? I’m going to be on my own.’

Geneviève didn’t know what to do. It meant their plan had worked, though she didn’t understand why Eloise hadn’t been in contact to tell them Authié was coming. Was it good news or bad? She wasn’t sure.

‘What am I going to do?’ Coralie wailed again.

Geneviève didn’t want to leave her sister, but she had to tell Sandrine as soon as she could.

‘I’m going to fetch Mathilde from the boulangerie,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘She’ll sit with you.’

‘No!’ Coralie’s hand shot out and grasped Geneviève’s arm. ‘Don’t go.’

‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

Shutting her ears to the sounds of her sister’s sobbing, Geneviève let herself out of the house and rushed towards the boulangerie, not thinking about what she would do if Mathilde wasn’t there.

She rounded the corner and stopped dead. There were soldiers in the square, rounding people up. Quickly Geneviève turned and walked in the opposite direction. Grey uniforms everywhere, four men being herded towards the bridge, their hands above their heads, the proprietor of the Grand Café Guilhem among them. The other end of the road was blocked by soldiers too. Geneviève turned again and barrelled into a man coming out of the tabac.

‘What’s going on?’ she said.

‘Someone tried to blow up the bridge at Alet,’ he said. ‘Stop a German convoy getting through. Americans opened fire. Commander’s been killed, apparently.’

‘What about the others, did they get away?’

‘The maquisards?’

‘Yes,’ she said quickly.

The man gave a slow smile. ‘Dead, most of them.’

Too late, Geneviève realised what she’d said. She turned. A milicien was stepping out of the interior of the shop.

‘You’re under arrest,’ he said.

She put her hands up. The milicien turned towards another man in a grey suit.

‘What do you want us to do with her, Major Authié?’

Geneviève froze. How was he here so soon? They weren’t ready. Why hadn’t Eloise warned them? Then, the ground seemed to go from under her. If ‘Citadel’ had been discovered – not through the plan they’d put into action, but betrayed – then the drop-off at the Hôtel Moderne et Pigeon wasn’t secure anymore either. Had Eloise been arrested? Or killed?

Geneviève felt her legs start to shake. More than ever, she had to get a message to Sandrine. To warn her that Eloise might have been caught, that Alphonse was dead, that Raoul might have been taken. She caught her breath, trying to calm herself. She glanced around, trying to see if there was any possibility she could get away.

Too many soldiers, too many police.

She looked back to Authié. For a moment, his eyes locked on to hers. Black and cold, devoid of emotion.

‘Your name?’ he said.

Geneviève said nothing. Without warning, Authié drew back his arm and hit her. Her head snapped back. The force of it, the shock of it, sent her staggering.

‘Your name,’ he repeated.

Slowly, she shook her head. Authié stared, then turned to the milicien.

‘Where’s Laval? He’ll persuade her to talk.’

‘I haven’t seen him, sir.’

Geneviève wiped the specks of blood from her mouth. Authié lifted his hand again and she flinched, anticipating another blow. But instead he adjusted the silver brooch on the lapel of his jacket.

‘Put her in the van with the others,’ he said.

Chapter 144

‘Where the hell is Laval?’ Authié demanded, looking round the concourse in front of the railway station. Everywhere was a mass of black shirts and brown, the blue berets of the Milice, and he couldn’t see him.

‘We can’t find him, Major.’

Authié had last seen Laval in Limoux three hours ago. While he was interrogating Eloise Breillac, news had come through that Raoul Pelletier had been arrested four days previously. Authié had sent Laval to telephone the warden of Carcassonne prison to instruct him to hold Pelletier there. Events seemed to be spiralling out of his control. He felt a desperate urge to act.

Then, after holding out for several hours, Eloise Breillac had begun to talk, so Authié didn’t notice Laval hadn’t come back. She admitted that the plan was to lure Authié into an ambush scheduled for Sunday the twentieth of August. Seeing a perfect opportunity to turn the attack against ‘Citadel’ by surprising them a day early, Authié had immediately left Limoux to drive to Couiza.

He’d assumed Laval was following in a separate vehicle.

‘Well find him,’ he shouted. ‘I want to see him immediately. Immediately, is that clear?’

The milicien saluted and disappeared back around the corner of the building. The concourse looked like a military encampment. Four Feldgendarmerie trucks and a black Citroën Avant belonging to SS-Sturmbannführer Schmidt, his opposite number. A joint operation, he and Schmidt had ordered everyone to be fully armed. Grenades, bandoliers slung over shoulders, glinting in the sun like chain mail. Some with M40 sub-machine guns, the majority with Kar-98 semi-automatic rifles.

‘Any sign of the targets?’

They had taken the usual step of rounding up the local population as hostages and bringing them to the square. Even so, Authié assumed that somebody would manage to get a message to the insurgents. Someone always did.

In any case, he wanted Coustaussa to know he was coming. By arriving twenty-four hours ahead of time and by posting patrols on the surrounding roads, he would make sure that ‘Citadel’ would be unable to evacuate the village. Authié knew that his reputation preceded him. The more intimidated Coustaussa was, the more likely it was they would negotiate and hand Vidal over.

Authié took a deep breath. This was the moment he had been waiting for. In a matter of hours, he would have Vidal and the others in custody. And he would have the Codex.

‘What can you tell me?’

The radio operator removed his headphones.

‘Reports of two women – one of them matching the description of the agent “Catherine” – sighted in the garrigue to the north of the village. Another two – again, one identified as fitting the description of “André” – have been seen in the vicinity of the castle ruins.’

‘Marianne Vidal and Suzanne Peyre,’ he said. ‘No sign of “Sophie”?’

‘Not yet, sir.’

Authié nodded. ‘Has anyone else attempted to leave Coustaussa?’

‘An old woman and a child in a dog cart,’ he replied. ‘Heading towards Rennes-les-Bains. As per your orders, they let them go. Also, a man and a woman trying to get out on the Cassaignes road.’

‘And?’

‘The report is that they resisted arrest,’ he said.

Authié nodded. ‘Good.’ His orders had been brutal and clear. Except for the very old and the very young, anyone offering any kind of resistance should be shot on sight. It served as a warning. ‘Radio all units and tell them to advance on the village.’

The man nodded, put his headphones back on and started to broadcast Authié’s orders back up the hill.

‘What would you like done with the hostages?’ Sturmbannführer Schmidt asked, gesturing to the several hundred old men, women and children standing in the fierce August sun. A heavily pregnant young woman was struggling to stay on her feet in the heat. A mother was trying to shade her baby with a newspaper.

‘They will remain here until the operation is successfully concluded. This town has supported maquisards and aided partisans. This is the consequence.’

Schmidt nodded and waved his men forward. Six Unterscharführer immediately took up position. Authié gave orders to the Milice, Schmidt repeated the same orders in German, then they got into the car. The Citroën pulled away, past the damaged substation and on to the dirt track that led through the garrigue. Two of the trucks followed, sending up stones in a cloud of dust. The other two vehicles were to approach from the lower road. They would begin rounding everyone up, as they had done in Couiza, and searching every house.

Authié and Schmidt did not speak as they rolled slowly up the hill towards the village. Authié was aware that the insurgents might try to attack the car before he reached Coustaussa. He looked up over the garrigue, then down towards the village. The road was empty as far as he eye could see.

They rounded a bend. He could see a collection of small flint buildings, and then the first of the houses on the outskirts of Coustaussa. Small dwellings and a large whitewashed farm building next to a field of vines. Finally, the first indications that the battle had already begun. The bodies of a man and a woman were hanging from the branch of a holm oak. Their faces hooded and their hands tied behind their backs, twisting slowly round in the heat.

‘A warning to the rest,’ Authié said. Schmidt said nothing.

On the outskirts of the village, Authié saw a starburst of blood on the white wall of the farm building. Lying between the vines, the body of a teenage boy. He got out to examine the body, then walked back to speak to the officer in charge of the truck behind them.

‘He’s not dead yet. Take him to the square with the others.’

Two soldiers jumped down from the truck. Shocked back into consciousness, the boy started to struggle, his feet thrashing on the ground. The soldiers dragged him down towards the village, leaving a trail of blood in the dust.

Authié nodded with satisfaction when he reached the Place de la Mairie. So far, no attack. No ambush. Most of the inhabitants were already in the square. One of the other Feldgendarmerie trucks was parked across the rue de la Mairie, and Schmidt told their driver to park across the rue de l’Empereur, blocking the other escape route.

Authié got out.

‘Women and children that side,’ he ordered, pointing to the war memorial. ‘Men over there.’

The soldiers immediately started to push and shove the prisoners, making no allowances, no exceptions. Old and young, physically able or frail, jabbing and threatening as they had done in Couiza.

‘You expect the attack to come from below the village, not above it?’ Schmidt asked.

‘If they had intended to attack from the north, they would have made an attempt on us already,’ he said.

‘So what do we do? My men are asking.’ Schmidt paused. ‘They have heard stories.’

Authié glanced around at the faces of the German soldiers. The usual belligerence and bloodlust on some, but also confusion and fear on others. The miliciens were the same.

‘What stories?’ he demanded.

‘That the village is haunted,’ he said. ‘That these women are . . .’ He broke off, clearly embarrassed.

‘That the women are what, Sturmbannführer Schmidt?’ Authié said coldly.

‘That they are in league with . . . That they are ghosts, some say.’

Authié felt a wild rage sweep through him. Who else but Laval knew about the Codex? Had he talked?

‘Do you believe such stories?’ he managed to say.

The Nazi flushed. ‘Of course not.’

‘Well then,’ Authié said, making no attempt to hide his contempt. ‘They are your men. They will follow your orders.’

‘But what, precisely, are your orders, Major Authié?’ Schmidt said.

‘To wait,’ he replied. ‘To wait until she comes.’

Chapter 145

COUSTAUSSA

Sandrine felt nothing, heard nothing.

The beating silence hung heavy over the waiting land. The air seemed to vibrate and shimmer and pulse. The heat, the cicadas, the sway of the wild lavender and shock-yellow genet among the thistles, the whispering wind of the Tramontana in the garrigue.

It was all her fault. Authié had come, but too soon. Before they were ready. All she had intended was to kill Authié and, with Monsieur Baillard’s help, drive the invaders once and for all from the Midi.

But she could see the bodies of a man and a woman hanging dead from the branch of the old holm oak and she’d heard gunfire on the outskirts of the village by the Andrieu farm.

It was her fault. She had gambled Coustaussa and everyone in it, so sure was she that her plan would work. She had lost. Every death was her responsibility. All she could do now was to try and save as many people as she could.

She peered out from the cover of the capitelle. Marianne and Lucie had taken up their position in the Camp Grand, while Suzanne and Liesl were in the ruins of the castle.

There was no sign of anyone else. Sandrine no longer thought Raoul would come. She no longer believed Monsieur Baillard would be able to help. In the end, the Codex was no more than a dream. A beautiful, but useless, myth.

It meant nothing in the end.

In these last moments of stillness, she tried not think about Eloise or Geneviève. Where were they? Coralie’s husband was missing too. And Raoul? She dropped her head on her arms, so tired of it all.

No one was coming. The land was silent and still. And although she feared what was to come, more than anything she wanted it to be over.

Forcing herself to act, Sandrine half crawled behind the low, long wall that ran alongside the track down towards the village. There was a gap of fifteen feet, maybe twenty, between the end of the wall and the first outbuildings of the old Andrieu farm. No cover, no shade. If Authié was waiting for her, watching from the blackened windows of the house beside the abandoned cemetery, this exposed patch of land was where the bullet would find her.

She assumed everyone had been taken to the Place de la Mairie while the soldiers searched the farms and houses. There was a sudden burst of machine-gun fire from the hills and the answering staccato chatter of an automatic weapon closer to hand. Sandrine’s thoughts shattered, like fragments of bright glass. She pulled her Walther P38 from her belt, the familiar weight of it reassuring in her hand.

Breaking cover, she ran, low and fast, until she reached the edge of the Sauzède property. She vaulted the low wall, then on to the next garden, zigzagging from one square of land to the next and coming into the village from the east.

She crossed the rue de la Condamine and into the tiny alleyway beside the round tower, giving her a clear view of the square.

Authié was there, she could feel it. Then she saw a ribbon of red blood and the body of a young boy lying on his back on the dusty ground. His right hand twitched and jerked, then fell still back to his side.

Still she couldn’t see him behind the ranks of grey jackets and black. The rattle of a machine gun from the ruins of the castle rent the air. Taken by surprise, a soldier jerked round and returned fire. A woman screamed and pulled her children to her, trying to shield them.

Jacques Cassou broke away from the group, trying to run to the safety of the rue de la Condamine. He was an easy target. Sandrine could only watch in horror as the Schmeissers ripped into him. His daughter Ernestine tried to catch him. But she was too slow, he was too heavy. Jacques staggered, dropped to his knees. The soldiers kept firing, this second hail of bullets bringing them both down.

Hearing the gunfire, Lucie and Marianne launched the first of the smoke canisters from the Camp Grand. It soared over the houses and landed at the edge of the square by the truck. Then a second canister, and another, releasing plumes of blue and pink and orange and yellow smoke into the stifling air. The soldiers were disorientated, cross-firing into one another’s positions. Sandrine realised they were nervous too. Whatever Authié had told them about the operation, they realised there was more to it than just another raid on a partisan stronghold.

‘Halten! Halten!’

The Sturmbannführer shouted the order to hold fire, repeating it in French. Discipline was immediately restored. But the hiatus had been long enough for the hostages to scatter. Some headed for refuge in the church or in the shaded undergrowth below the chemin de la Fontaine, others to the cellars of the presbytery. Marianne would do her best to smuggle everyone away.

As soon as the square was clear of civilians, Suzanne and Liesl launched the main assault from the castle. Their bullets raked the ground. A grenade exploded on impact with the war memorial. In response, the mixed German and French unit divided into two, some firing into the hills, others indiscriminately after the fleeing hostages. Through the coloured smoke and the dust, Sandrine glimpsed the blue berets of the Miliciens vanishing into the rue de la Peur and realised they intended to leave no witnesses.

Because of her plan, a plan that had failed, the whole village would die. She couldn’t let that happen. There was no choice but to give herself up in exchange for the hostages. Besides, she could see Authié now, standing with his right hand resting on the black bonnet of the car and his Mauser hanging loose in his left. He looked calm, disengaged, as the firefight raged around him.

Sandrine dropped the hammer on her pistol and stepped out into the light.

‘It’s me you want, not them. Let them go.’

It wasn’t possible that he should hear her and yet, despite the noise and the shouting, he did. He turned and looked straight at her. Those eyes, she thought. Was he smiling, she wondered, or did it pain him that it should end like this?

He said her name. Her real name. The soft music of it hung suspended in the air. Threat or entreaty, she didn’t know, but she felt her resolve weaken. He said it again. And this time, it sounded bitter, false in his mouth. A betrayal. The spell was broken.

Sandrine lifted her arm. And fired.

Chapter 146

PIC DE VICDESSOS

The sun was full in the sky when Audric Baillard and Guillaume Breillac cleared the crest of the hill. It had taken them three days to make their way south from Tarascon, evading the Nazi patrols. Baillard had seen the beginnings, and the ends, of many wars in his long life and knew that the last days were often the most dangerous. He knew that Dame Carcas had spoken the words in Carcaso to save her stronghold and still the ghost army had come. Even so, he believed his chance of success would be greater in the Vallée des Trois Loups.

‘This last part of the journey is my responsibility,’ he said. ‘I cannot ask you to go further.’

Guillaume nodded. ‘I’ll wait here. Keep watch.’

Baillard continued alone. After reading the words and allowing the text to take root in his mind, he had finally understood that the verses could be spoken only on behalf of another. That to offer one’s life willingly and freely, so that others might live, was what gave the words power.

That the greatest act of war was love.

Baillard now understood how, if the words were spoken, each person would see their own heart reflected back at them. The good would see the good they had done, the bad would see their own ill deeds. But, as he looked up at the pattern of the cross reflected on the face of the rock, the way the light danced and swayed between the branches of the oak trees, he prayed that he was not mistaken.

He hoped Raoul was back standing at Sandrine’s side. That each – Marianne and Suzanne, Liesl and Lucie, Geneviève and Eloise – would understand what she had to do and why. And still Baillard did not know whether the act of reading the words out loud would kill him. Whether he must die so that others might live, or whether merely to be prepared to sacrifice his own life was sufficient.

He waited a few moments more, until finally he was ready. Then he took the Codex from the pocket of his pale suit and began to read the seven verses out loud.

Come forth the spirits of the air. Come forth the armies of the air.

From the blood of the land where once they fell, come forth in the final hour. Travel over the sea of glass. Travel over the sea of fire. The sea shall engulf you and fire shall cleanse you and you shall arrive at a place that you know and do not know. There, the bones of the fallen, the warriors, await you and time will be time no longer.

Every death remembered.

Then the broken tower will fall. The sepulchre will be rent asunder. The mountain stronghold will release those summoned by the courage of he who speaks: ‘Come forth the spirits of the air. Come forth the armies of the air.’

And though their number be ten thousand times ten thousand, they will heed you and they will answer. Those who died so others might live, those who gave their lives and now live, will hear your call. They will return to the land from which they came.

And the ghost army shall carry with them the tools of their lives – sword and javelin and quill and plough – and they shall save those who shall come after. The land will rise and defend those who are pure of heart.

Then, when the battle is over, they shall sleep once more.

The air closed around the verses spoken. His words echoed away into silence.

Slowly, Baillard let his arm drop. For a moment, he stood in the green embrace of the glade. At first, nothing but a faint rumbling of thunder in the sky.

Then, he began to hear them. A movement in the trees, the earth breaking open. The shadows of those he had loved and had prayed to see again.

He let out a long and gentle sigh. No apocalypse, no destroying of all that was good, along with all that was bad, but the words made flesh. An army of ghosts, the spirits of the fallen, was coming to stand upon the land where once they fell.

‘A la perfin,’ he murmured. At last.

He smiled. And might he see her now? Would she come in the army of ghosts?

Baillard heard a crack, sharp in the silence of the valley. He looked down and saw blood. He stared at the stain spreading on his jacket, red against white. A hole where a bullet had hit him in the side.

His body met his mind. Pain suddenly hit and his legs buckled. Then he was falling. He held the Codex to him. The vow he had taken in the labyrinth cave so many years ago had kept him living beyond his allotted time, but could it be that he was dying now?

A stranger broke out of the cover of the trees, striding towards him, a gun in his right hand. Short black hair, dark skin, cold eyes. Baillard did not know him, though he had met his kind many times before. There was blood on his clothes. Baillard prayed it did not belong to Guillaume Breillac.

‘Where is it?’

‘Who are you?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

Many times during his long and lonely life, Baillard had found the burden he carried too much to bear. Now he discovered in himself a desperate desire to live.

‘Alaïs,’ he said under his breath.

He had been waiting so long for her to come back to him. He would not be robbed of the chance to see her again. Baillard saw the man lift his arm and aim his weapon.

‘Where’s the Codex, old man?’

‘It is not intended for you,’ he said.

Through the thin material of his jacket, Baillard found the cold metal of his gun and pulled the trigger.

The man’s eyes flared open with surprise as the bullet hit him in the heart. He stared, swaying on his feet, then blood jetted from his mouth and he dropped to his knees, his gun still grasped in his hand.

‘You shall not take it,’ Baillard managed to say.

He was no longer in any pain. Rather, he was aware of a dreadful longing. He could hear them now. He could hear the land itself beginning to move, the graveyards opening as life was breathed back into the bones of those who dwelt in the earth. His words had summoned them. The ghost army had awoken and was beginning to walk.

The ancient words lay beneath him, the papyrus slippery now with his blood. Drowning.

Those who died so others might live, those who gave their lives and now live.

Was that to be his fate?

As consciousness slipped away, Baillard saw Guillaume Breillac staggering up the hillside. His left arm hung limp by his side and there was blood on his face, but he was on his feet. It seemed to take him an eternity to cover the ground from the edge of the path. He stopped briefly beside the man Baillard had shot, then bent down and put his hand to Baillard’s neck to check for a pulse.

‘Who was he?’ Baillard managed to ask.

‘Sylvère Laval,’ Guillaume replied. ‘Authié’s man.’

‘Is he dead?’

‘Yes.’

Baillard closed his eyes. He felt Breillac struggle to pick him up. He tried to speak, to tell him to save his strength, but his voice was too weak. He knew he was not mortally wounded – Guillaume Breillac neither – though he thought they would be forced to rest in the Vallée des Trois Loups awhile.

Baillard realised he was smiling. Because now, so clearly, he could hear the voices in the mountains. The whisperings of the ghost army reclaiming the land that was rightly theirs.

He hoped – prayed – it would be enough. That it was not too late.

Chapter 147

COUSTAUSSA

Sandrine knew the bullet had gone wide. The sound of Authié’s voice had sent a memory of pain, of humiliation, sharp through her, making her hand shake.

She raised her gun again, but sensing someone behind, she swung round. This time she hit her target. A grey uniform went down, blood spurting from his right thigh. He managed to drag himself to cover and lifted his Mauser K98 rifle.

Sandrine threw herself sideways. She saw the flash of unburnt propellant and heard a distinctive sharp crack as the bullet nicked the wall, then ricocheted into the ground.

‘I want her alive!’ Authié shouted.

She located his position through the smoke. He had taken cover behind the black Citroën at the corner of rue de l’Empereur. Trying not to look at the corpses of Jacques and Ernestine Cassou, Sandrine emerged from the alleyway. Keeping low, and with her left shoulder hard against the wall, she crouched down, looked along the sight, lining up the notch and the front blade post. She fired. The front nearside tyre exploded.

Another grenade landed in the Place de la Mairie, striking the southwest corner of the square this time, blowing out all the windows of the Cassou house on the corner. From every window, the explosion of glass shattering, glinting, spiralling silver like a child’s kaleidoscope. Smoke clouds of blue and pink and yellow, like the air around the old aluminium factory in Tarascon, blotted out the blue Midi sky. The corner of the Sauzède house crumbled, its sharp right angles giving way to a disordered jigsaw of jagged, wrecked stone.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sandrine saw Liesl. They had moved the weapons cache from the capitelles. Now Liesl was leading the old men and women back into the streets holding antique Saint-Etienne revolvers, World War I .32-calibre Webleys. Even a couple of Labelle carbine bolt-action cavalry rifles.

A Gestapo officer dropped to one knee. He pressed the butt of his SMG hard into his shoulder, then pulled the trigger. Sandrine heard the sickening whump as rounds smashed into an old man at the front of the group. The hot lead burning through bone and muscle, ripping through liver and heart and stomach. Another explosion, to Sandrine’s left, near the cemetery.

Then she glimpsed Suzanne’s trademark cropped hair. And, behind her, a glint of metal. A beam of sunlight glancing, fleetingly, on the metal tip of a rifle. Sandrine narrowed her eyes. Not a K98, so far as she could make out, but a British Lee Enfield. The tip of the rifle jolted as the soldier got into position. Ready for the shot.

‘Suzanne!’ she shouted. ‘To your right.’

Everything seemed to happen at once. A single shot rang out. Sandrine watched the rifle drop to the ground, then the soldier – not Suzanne – fell. Marianne stepped out from the cover of the building. Briefly, Sandrine saw them kiss, then Suzanne continued down the rue de la Condamine and Marianne ran back towards the church.

As Sandrine gave a sigh of relief, she felt the cold, hard barrel of a gun pressed against her temple and a hand reaching out to take her P38 from her hand. Watching the battle unfold, she had forgotten to guard her own position.

‘It’s over,’ he said.

Sandrine began to shake. Authié’s voice, the pressure of his body against hers, taking her back to the villa on the route de Toulouse.

‘Where is it?’ he whispered in her ear.

‘I don’t have it,’ she forced herself to say.

He jabbed the barrel against her skin. ‘I don’t believe you.’

Sandrine tried to kick back at him, but Authié smashed her forward into the wall and she felt her top lip split. A gentle trickle of blood seeped, warm, into her mouth. Then he was dragging her back by her hair towards the square.

‘Where are you taking me?’

He punched her. ‘Tell me where it is,’ he said, his voice rising.

Winded, Sandrine couldn’t speak. She felt a dull ache, a tug, in her abdomen and knew she was bleeding.

‘Where is it?’ he repeated.

‘I don’t have it,’ she managed to say again.

As Authié held the gun against her head, his finger poised on the trigger, they heard a noise. A sound, a rumbling like thunder in the mountain. His hand wavered and he looked up.

‘What was that?’

Chapter 148

Sandrine glanced up at the sky, but it was completely clear. An endless blue, no clouds. Then she heard it again, a deep reverberation that seemed to come from the centre of the earth. She felt a spark of hope. Had Raoul come back? Was he here with men from Tarascon, from Salvezines, to help?

She looked around. The soldiers were also gazing up. The men and women of Coustaussa too, all staring, confusion on everyone’s faces. The guns had fallen silent.

Without hesitation, Sandrine drove her heel back into Authié’s shin, throwing him momentarily off balance. He recovered straight away and let off a shot, but she managed to throw herself under the car and roll to the other side, then stagger across the road into the alleyway between two buildings. The pain in her abdomen intensified. She felt something tear, rip.

Authié fired, two more bullets into the wall. He couldn’t see where she’d gone. He looked mad, his eyes darting wildly from left to right in his desperation to find her.

Some of the miliciens were starting to retreat. Sandrine couldn’t see what they were looking at, only that their faces had gone from confusion to fear. Then the ground started to shake. She wondered if it might be a tank, though the idea was absurd. Now even the sky seemed to be shaking too but, although the noise was getting louder, it wasn’t the sound of a plane.

‘Come forth the spirits of the air.’

Sandrine heard herself utter the words, though they didn’t seem to leave her mouth. Then she began to hear other voices. More like the sound of the wind in the trees than words, yet she thought she could make out what they were saying. Voices, and the sound of a multitude of marching feet.

‘Come forth the spirits of the air.’

She watched the MP40 slip from a young soldier’s grasp. The man behind him was gripping his weapon so hard, his fist was white with the strain of it. He jolted, then turned and ran.

Terror took hold. Some were transfixed, petrified, as they stumbled back, held in thrall by whatever they thought they saw. She caught fragments, muttered imprecations of the Devil and the dead, prayers she didn’t understand. She watched as the body of a young soldier turned black, his tongue protruded and his eyes brimmed with blood.

‘Teufel.’

Terrified by something more than the guns and the bombs and the mortars destroying the square, the soldiers were scattering.

‘Geister.’

This, a word she did understand. Ghosts.

‘Monsieur Baillard,’ she whispered. He had done it. He had summoned them, as he had promised he would. And they had come.

Now all the soldiers were turning, starting to run, making no attempt to take cover. They were brought down by a storm of bullets. Friendly fire or hit by Suzanne and Lucie, Sandrine didn’t know. In the corner of the square she saw Liesl leading the villagers away to safety. Marianne was shooing a gaggle of children out of the church and towards the woods. The Gestapo and Milice forces trampled each other in their desperation to get away. They fell as they staggered over fallen comrades, the bullets seeming to come from all sides. Some had wounds as if they’d been shot, others as if they’d been attacked with a spear or javelin. Stabbed with the blade of a knife.

Sandrine was struggling to comprehend what she was witnessing. The girl she had been and the woman she was now, brought face to face at this single moment in her life.

Was this it? Was this the promised salvation? Or was it a different sort of justice the Codex promised?

Then, in the centre of the killing field, Sandrine saw Authié again. He wore a look of mute terror. His grey eyes were wild with horror, fixed on the graveyard on the corner of the rue de la Condamine. Finally, this was her chance. She ran back to the square and snatched a weapon abandoned on the ground. Not her gun, but one that would do.

‘Authié,’ she shouted. ‘This was what you were seeking. This is what the Codex brings to you. To men like you.’

He swung round to look at her. For a split second, she saw a flash of the old Authié. The man who had hunted her down, who had brutalised her and stolen her future from her.

‘Men like you,’ she repeated.

Before he had a chance to respond, Sandrine raised the gun and fired. This time, she did not miss. Two shots. One to stop, one to kill.

For an endless moment, Authié stood swaying on his feet. Then he fell forward, his body hitting the corner of the car, then sliding to the ground. A ribbon of blood was smeared on the bonnet, red against the black. Straight away, like the others, the bullet hole in his forehead began to blacken and his tongue to swell. White pupils filling with blood started to rot in their sockets.

Sandrine dropped the gun. Her legs went out from under her. She clamped her hand over her mouth in horror. Authié was dead. She had killed him. But at what cost?

‘Coratge, sòrre.’

A shiver went down her spine. The same voice, but this time as clear as if someone had been standing beside her. Sandrine raised her head. She didn’t want to look. She was frightened to look.

She struggled to her feet. If Monsieur Baillard was right, then she would not see what Authié had seen. What the treacherous and murderous men who had come with him to Coustaussa to murder them all had seen.

Slowly, Sandrine turned around.

At first she thought the smoke had floated back to the square. Then she realised it was a haze, like a summer mist.

Come forth the spirits of the air.

To start with, she could see nothing distinct. But then the impression of movement, a shimmering in the atmosphere. Slowly, they emerged. Row after row after row of people, beyond a glass sea. Not people, but outlines. Indistinct shadows of white and red and black, pale green robes, faces hidden beneath hoods and shadow and flame.

And the number was ten thousand times ten thousand.

Steadily, Sandrine walked towards the army of light. Thousands of women and men standing side by side. One face grew clearer. A girl – like her, perhaps – smiling. Sandrine felt a sensation of peace, of recognition. A whole life perceived in an instant. A woman, known in life as Alaïs Pelletier du Mas. She wore a long green dress, drawn tight at the waist, with a red cloak around her shoulders and her dagger strapped to her belt. Her long dark hair fell unfettered down her back. Her expression was gentle yet resolute, peaceful with the knowledge of one who had died once and would die again. Her eyes were clear and bright and alive with the wisdom of all she had seen, all she had suffered. All she had tried to teach those who came after her.

Even though they were strangers, now other lives emerged from the ranks of the ghost army. Beside Alaïs stood Rixende, a woman who had died to save her mistress and for her faith. In death, now, a friend as she could not be in life. Standing, too, in the vanguard of the army of the air, a girl with long copper hair. Parisian by birth, but in courage and spirit and honour a daughter of the Languedoc. Léonie Vernier. And, more recent still, their spirits not yet at rest in the cold earth, those who had died in the last days and weeks, in the company of those long departed.

Alaïs looked to her husband, Guilhem, in whose sleeping arms she had lain. Sandrine saw their memories, hidden in the caves of the Sabarthès. She saw his lips shaping the words imprinted on her own heart. In this world and the next, echoing down the centuries.

Mon còr.

Sandrine felt the pattern of the syllables, the vowels, the consonants, though the words were not spoken aloud. Did not need to be spoken out loud. Here, in the army of the dead, time and space and the temporal order of things meant nothing. Were nothing. Here was only light and air and the memory written in blood, and that did not fade. Here, the cares of the world were set to flight.

Spirit only. Courage only. Love.

My love, yes.

Guilhem had died in the arms of the woman he loved and lay un-buried at her side. One of the unknown dead destined to lie there for decades more. It was not yet their time to be found, to be mourned, to be buried. But soon. Soon, someone would come and their names would join the ranks of those who had lived and died for their country.

Guilhem stood, as he had stood many times before, at the right hand of his liege lord, Raymond-Roger Trencavel. Trencavel’s skin was pale from the sleep of ages, but his eyes were battle bright. His right hand gripped the sword that had served him so well in life, insubstantial skin touching familiar iron. Fingers that were not there, blood that did not move or slip, skin that could not be pierced or burnt or cut any longer.

In this August of 1944, his restless spirit remained the same as it had been in 1209 as he waited within the walls of Carcassonne. Then, Guilhem had set out through the Porte Narbonnaise at his seigneur’s side to beat back the crusaders massed at the gates. On that day, the battle had been lost, though he had never given up. His life had been dedicated to driving the invader, the occupier, the collaborators from the land he loved.

Every death remembered.

Viscount Trencavel had not lived to see his son grow up, as so many others would not see their children grow up, but he watched him from another realm and was proud of the man his son became. Raymond had fought, as he himself had fought, been defeated as he had been defeated. Reunited now, the son at the father’s side, his place assured in the ranks of the fallen dead.

And on the far side of his son, Trencavel’s friend and steward, Bertrand Pelletier.

Thousand upon tens of thousands massed, or so it seemed. The ancient lords of the Sabarthès and the Corbières and Termenès, Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix, Amaury de Montréal, Pierre-Roger de Cabaret and Amiel de Coursan. And lower chevaliers also, Thierry de Massabrac and Alzeu de Preixan, dubbed the same Passiontide as Guilhem du Mas. Simeon the Bookbinder with his long black beard, returned now to the side of his old ally, Pelletier. Esclarmonde de Servian, the bravest of women, and Guiraude, the Lady of Lavaur, under whose protection the bons homes had lived. And Dame Carcas, her hair hidden beneath her veil, also in the ranks of the army of spirits which had once come to her aid.

Those who died so others might live, those who gave their lives and now live, will hear your call.

Pascal Barthès, all those whose lives were taken by fire or flood or iron. White bones on the battlefield, picked clean by time. Grey bones in the arms of the earth, fallen in the mountains of the Sabarthès, scorched in the pyres of Montségur or the Domaine de la Cade, on the fields of Flanders and France.

Now they were moving, murmuring. The ghost army had been summoned to this one place and it had come. In the shadow of Rennes-les-Bains and Rennes-le-Château, the ruins of the castle, the ancient green forest of Arques and Tarascon and the grey wall of the mountains beyond, they walked to Coustaussa. Gathered here to fight once more. Once more, a call to arms. To rid their lands of occupation, of the oppressor, of the shame of the yellow cross and the yellow star. A drift of autumn leaves, the marks of oppression fluttering free now. This, the final battle for the soul of the Languedoc.

They had each heard the call and they had answered. Those sleeping in the cimetière Saint-Michel, in the cimetière Saint-Vincent, in the country graveyards of the Haute Vallée. A shifting, a murmuring through the cities of the dead, words carried on the wind.

Were they here in Coustaussa only, or everywhere throughout the Languedoc? She didn’t know.

Sandrine felt tears come to her eyes. She could not see Raoul. Surely, if he was dead, she would see him? There was still hope, then. If he was not here, he had not died. Quickly, she sent her eyes flying over the thousands of faces and heads and folds of cloth. She could not see Lucie or Marianne, Suzanne or Liesl either. She could not see Monsieur Baillard.

But then she turned her head and saw the stone wings of the statue, the sword clasped in her hands. Beside her, a little apart from the group, she found the smiling, pretty face of Geneviève Saint-Loup. And on the other side, Eloise Breillac. Alphonse, who had never held his child in his arms, and Yvette and Robert Bonnet, brave and stoical. And a man so like Raoul that the sight of him caught at Sandrine’s heart. His brother Bruno, she realised. The tears fell down her cheeks.

Next, Sandrine saw a man with a calm expression. A long grey woollen robe, like a monk’s habit.

‘Arinius, the map maker,’ she murmured.

Beside him, with her hair braided over one shoulder, a bright-eyed girl with quick, searching eyes. Lupa, one of the unsung Christian saints, who had died at her husband’s side to protect the people they loved. For a timeless instant, Sandrine met her gaze and saw something of herself reflected in Lupa’s silver eyes.

Finally, in the white centre, her father – François Vidal – with the same gentle, loving smile on his face as he had worn in life. She reached out to him, wishing more than anything that she could feel his hand in hers again, but she knew she couldn’t cross the distance between them.

Sandrine understood it was almost over. Time had run its course. The ghost army had done what it had been summoned to do. It had sent the invaders from the land, driving their enemies to death or to flight. Suzanne, Marianne, Liesl and Lucie had led the people – and, God willing, themselves – to safety. Only she remained to gaze upon the faces of the spirits who had risen to fight for the Midi once more.

Sandrine watched as each turned towards Viscount Trencavel. They seemed to wish him to speak. As he did so, his voice carried on the wind. Metal drew against metal, against leather. An intake of breath, ghosts yet, but the sense of purpose remained.

Per lo Miègjorn.

Words not spoken, but heard. Words beyond words, imprinted in the soul and the spirit of those who had given their lives so others might live. And would again.

Then, when the battle is over, they shall sleep once more.

Chapter 149

BAUDRIGUES

Sandrine opened her eyes. At first she didn’t know where she was. She could remember little, except that she had killed Authié and the act had brought her peace. And then something had happened and . . . She tried to sit up, but pain shot down her leg and she remembered. She put her hand to her abdomen and knew, this time, the bleeding would not stop.

Marianne and Suzanne had got everyone away, hadn’t they? And Liesl and Lucie? Everyone safe. She sighed with relief, then remembered. That wasn’t quite right. Lucie had come back to find her lying unconscious in the Place de la Mairie among rotting corpses.

Together, they had made it halfway down the hill, but then they had run into a Milice patrol. Those soldiers who’d fled before the ghosts looked into their souls had staggerred back to Couiza with stories so wild, so horrifying, their commanders had ordered a four-man patrol back to Coustaussa to investigate.

Lucie had tried to stop the soldiers arresting them. A gun had been fired, but who had fired it, Sandrine wasn’t sure. She remembered Lucie falling to the ground, her kneecap blown and bloodied. Shattered bone and cartilage, screaming with pain.

Then, the rattling wheels of the trucks heading east. For a while, peace, when Sandrine realised they had done it. They had won. They had saved Coustaussa. The Gestapo and Wehrmacht were withdrawing. Every unit and battalion leaving the South.

Sandrine was finding it hard to think now, but she wished she understood why they had been brought here rather than been killed. They had no more need for hostages, did they? She realised they were in the munitions store at the Château of Baudrigues outside Roullens. She knew the place from the outside. They’d tried to attack it, more than once. Suzanne, Marianne and her. They had never succeeded.

Sandrine turned her head and saw that Lucie was there. Of course she was there. Brave, brave Lucie to have come back to rescue her.

She felt a wave of affection wash through her battered body. For that first day when they were all together – Bastille Day, Tuesday 14 July 1942, in the boulevard Barbès. Her, Suzanne and Marianne and Lucie, Max and Liesl. And Raoul.

‘Raoul . . .’

Sandrine’s cracked lips broke into a smile as she remembered the sense of promise that day. The blue sky, the sweet summer air. A perfectly framed memory set in a gilt frame. Their voices raised in song.

‘Vive le Midi,’ she whispered, remembering the hope in their voices. ‘Vive Carcassonne.’

Geneviève and Eloise, brave women who had died for their friends. All the others too, known to her and unknown, she had admired. César Sanchez and Antoine Déjean, Yvette and Robert Bonnet. Gaston, too, in the end.

She wished she knew for sure that Liesl and Marianne and Suzanne were all right. Yves Rousset. God willing, Max. Little Jean-Jacques and Marieta.

‘Raoul,’ she murmured again.

Where was he? Why hadn’t he come?

Sandrine thought of Audric Baillard, of his wise face. If France was free again, it would be in part thanks to him. She didn’t understand what had happened, or why he had not been there with them. Only that he was a guardian of the land, the conscience of the Midi. That he linked what had been, and what was, and what was to come.

Sandrine shifted position, the cord seeming to cut deeper into her wrists. She knew she was dying. The internal injuries inflicted by Authié were too severe to allow her to survive. She thought how disappointed Raoul would be.

The minutes slipped by. The air was so still and so hot. Sandrine drifted in and out of consciousness, or sleep, she wasn’t sure. Elsewhere, outside in the park, noises filtered into the dirty room in which they were being held. She knew there were other prisoners here too – Jean Bringer, Aimé Ramond, Maurice Sevajols – she could hear voices from surrounding rooms.

The sound of footsteps, rough orders given in German and in French, the sound of the heavy doors of a Feldgendarmerie truck being slammed shut.

A scream of pain, a single shout splitting the air, then nothing.

The minutes ticked on, ticked on. The sun climbed higher in the sky and the shadows came round. Sandrine felt something on her leg. She opened her eyes and saw that a black spider was crawling across her ankle, the lightest of touches. She thought she should move, shake it off, but she lacked the strength even to do that now. The hours of sitting still, hands behind her back, legs bound, had robbed her of strength.

‘It’s supposed to be good luck, kid,’ murmured Lucie. ‘Maybe you’re going to come into money.’

Sandrine turned her head, pleased to hear the sound of Lucie’s voice.

‘I think it depends on what kind of spider it is,’ she replied.

‘A black widow?’

Sandrine gave a half-laugh. ‘Could be.’

‘I like your socks,’ Lucie said softly. ‘Unusual.’

‘My father brought them back from Scotland.’ She said the familiar words. ‘A gift.’

‘Ah . . . I remember, yes. They’re really something. Thought that the first time we met.’

The silence of the hot afternoon lapped over them again. Sandrine dozed, slipping in and out of consciousness. Strange to be so weightless, so cut adrift from sensation. Everything was blurred now, body and mind and emotion, all run together.

When she next came to her senses, Lucie was talking again.

‘We got everyone else away. We did that much.’

‘Yes,’ she murmured.

‘What happened to them?’ Lucie asked quietly. ‘The soldiers. Their bodies were black, Sandrine. Blood in their eyes . . .’

‘Yes.’

‘What did they see that terrified them so much? That could do that? Like they’d been burnt, all black and scorched.’

Sandrine thought of Alaïs and Léonie and Lupa, Dame Carcas and Viscount Trencavel.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Not really.’

Lucie fell silent. Sandrine couldn’t make sense of it either.

‘Just us, kid.’

Sandrine felt a lump in her throat. ‘Just us.’

Outside, the grunt of a lorry being started. More shouting, a sense of panic and fear, perhaps. Nothing ordered about the withdrawal.

‘The last ones are leaving,’ Lucie said, trying to prop herself up.

Sandrine bit back tears as she saw Lucie struggle, her disobedient and broken limbs no longer doing what she commanded.

‘How about that? We sent them packing after all.’

Sandrine looked at the ceiling. The patches of damp in the corner and the stains on the wall where a pipe had burst and water had seeped through. The smears of blood, brown and ridged in the gaps between the tiles. They were not the first prisoners to be held in this room.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Lucie said. ‘Next year, you’ll be twenty-one. We should have a grand party. Invite everyone, everyone we know. What do you say? May the eighth 1945. Make it a red-letter day. We’ll have cake for Jean-Jacques, and beer for Raoul.’

‘And Suzanne. She never really did much like wine either.’

‘We should invite everyone we know,’ Lucie continued. ‘Coming of age, and all that.’

‘Raoul will find us,’ Sandrine said, wanting to give Lucie something to cling on to.

‘Course he will.’

‘We have to be patient. Hold on for just a little bit longer.’

Lucie was smiling as her eyes flickered shut. ‘Raoul will find you. Like Hercules and his Pyrène, he’ll tear the Aude apart to get to you. Nothing will stand in his way.’

Sandrine smiled. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘He will.’

Chapter 150

CARCASSONNE

Raoul could feel nothing, see nothing. The days were darkness and nights without sleep. He had lost all sense of time since he was arrested in the station master’s office. Had lost all sense of self. Everything was as if it was happening to someone else, as if he was watching. Between the beatings and the pain, the blissful punctuation of black rest, he had separated himself from the reality.

He hadn’t talked. He hadn’t named names.

Raoul hoped the others had halted the train fantôme and rescued the prisoners. Max among them. Imagined how happy Lucie and Liesl would be. How pleased Sandrine would be.

He felt a tear slip from his eye. He couldn’t bear the thought of Sandrine worrying, waiting for him to come back. Her face had haunted him, every second since he’d been captured. All he could think about was how to get a message to her to let her know he loved her. That he was thinking of her.

Raoul didn’t think the alarm bell had rung, yet he knew all the prisoners were awake. Everyone knew when one of their own was about to be executed. The knowledge swept through the prison like wildfire. He thought how odd it was that beyond the prison walls were the river Aude and the sky and the Montagne Noire. The turrets and towers of the Cité, and Païchérou where he had first set eyes on Sandrine. Where he had taken her dancing only weeks ago.

The backdrop to the beginning of his life. Now, it seemed, the backdrop to the ending of it.

They came for him. Raoul felt a rough hand, the butt of a rifle in the small of his back, pushing him out of the cell and into the corridor. He lost his footing and stumbled, was pulled to his feet before he had the chance to fall. The idea of lying face down on the cool stone was appealing. Raoul thought he could lie and lie and sleep for ever, skin against the damp flagstones.

‘Keep moving,’ said the guard, harsh.

Most of the Nazis had gone. Senior officers of the Milice were travelling with the Kommandant in the midst of the German convoy. Those left behind, Raoul knew, would be hunted down and killed. They knew it too. Retaliation would be quick and brutal and summary. No one would protect the collaborators once the Gestapo was gone.

Raoul staggered forward, hearing the murmuring of voices, like the tide coming to shore, growing and getting louder. Cells filled with Spaniards, French and Belgians and Dutch partisans, occasionally a German voice – deserters who had joined the Resistance – once, a Polish voice. The sound gave him the strength to lift his battered head.

The murmur became a chorus, rising loud and strong. The song of the partisans, ‘La Butte Rouge’, hanging in the air, other songs that each prisoner knew, all sung in their own languages. He remembered what Monsieur Baillard had said once about how words were more powerful than anything else, that they did not lose their power or fade or grow weaker over time.

La Butte Rouge, c’est son nom, l’baptême s’fit un matin

Où tous ceux qui grimpèrent, roulèrent dans le ravin

Aujourd’hui y a . . .

Raoul felt his mouth forming itself into a smile. The cut on his lip was infected and most of the teeth in his lower jaw were gone, but his muscles remembered what it was to smile. He wished he could raise a hand to acknowledge the men’s voices, to wave as he walked by, but he could do no more than nod and turn his head from side to side as he passed. He hoped they understood that their voices made the difference.

It was not how one lived, but how one chose to die. One of Sandrine’s headlines in Libertat. Such a long time ago now, such a very long time ago.

The men started to bang on the bars, a drum tattoo walking him to his final judgement. He wished Sandrine could know he was not alone in these last minutes. He imagined her searching for him, searching every prison, every cell, until she’d found him and set him free. Such courage, such refusal to give up.

She would grieve for him, he knew, but he hoped she would build a new life with someone else. Learn to laugh again. When the war was won.

But he would have liked a child, a daughter. A little girl with Sandrine’s black curly hair, her spirit. They could call her Sophie, perhaps, to remind them of how once they had lived.

Raoul sighed. Not Sophie. Something new, for the future. He would leave it to Sandrine, she’d know.

‘This way.’ Again the jab in the back.

Raoul knew he wasn’t the first to be taken out today. He’d heard them, from four in the morning. In the early days of the occupation, at any execution there was a rabbi or a priest. As the years passed and there were too many souls to be shriven, too many in need of absolution, the practice ceased. The rabbis were all dead or deported and the good Christians could not collude with such unchristian acts. A last cigarette, the condemned man’s last supper, that too had gone.

He turned his head from the light as he was pushed into a room, too bright after the darkness of the cell. Disorientated, not certain what was happening, he stood between the two warders. He smiled then, realising that even now, even today, the pretence of fairness and the rule of law was being played out. A court martial, though there was no lawyer and no debate.

For a moment, letting his thoughts drift free, Raoul imagined what Sandrine might say. He heard himself laugh, so missed the pronouncement of the summary sentence, though it was only going to end one way.

Death by firing squad. To be carried out immediately.

The executioners were waiting as Raoul walked out of the courtroom and into the open air. Sand at his feet, the sun too bright. He thought how odd it was that he was to die on so beautiful a day. There was a single wooden stake in the centre of the yard. Even with his eyes narrowed against the light, Raoul saw blood on the stake from the last man who had stood there. Red, not yet brown in the sun.

‘Pelletier, Raoul.’

For a moment, the handcuffs were removed, but only so his hands could be tied around the stake with rope.

‘This?’ one of the guards was saying, waving a black hood in front of his face.

‘No,’ he said.

Raoul was pleased at how clear his voice sounded. Sandrine would be proud of him, he thought. Then the memory of her took the strength from him, and he felt his knees buckle.

‘No,’ he said again.

He looked at the twelve men ranged against him. Then he stood up straight and looked his killers in the eye. His countrymen.

‘Mon còr,’ he said. The only words that mattered any more.

He watched as the rifles were raised. He let his eyes slip, fleetingly, up to the Midi sky. So blue and clear. How strange, he thought again, that there should still be such beauty in the world. And he hoped she was safe beneath it.

‘Sandrine,’ he whispered.

Raoul heard the sound before he felt the bullets slamming into his chest, his legs, his arms, his head.

Chapter 151

‘Raoul!’ Sandrine cried out, her heart suddenly racing. ‘Raoul?’

For a moment she was neither asleep nor awake, as if some part of her had been left behind in the dream. She was floating, looking down at herself from a great height, like the stone gargoyles, dragons, lions that leered at passers-by from the cathédrale Saint-Michel. A sensation of slipping out of time, falling from one dimension into another through white, endless space.

‘Has he come for us?’ Lucie murmured.

Sandrine smiled at the sound of Lucie’s voice. She had been quiet for so long.

‘Not yet,’ she replied. ‘Soon.’

The flies were worse now. The room was airless, the sun ferocious, and the heat and the smell of blood caught in Sandrine’s throat. She turned her head to the right and could see, through the high windows, a patch of sky so blue and clear and endless. It seemed wrong, she thought, that there should be such beauty in the world on a day like this.

She rolled her head to the other side. Lucie was very pale, barely breathing. Sandrine could see her thin chest, beneath her broderie anglaise blouse, rising and falling faintly. Sandrine smiled a little. Lucie had always said she’d get married in that shirt. Smart, she said, but not too much.

A sudden memory of Lucie waltzing around the salon in Coustaussa, holding Jean-Jacques in her arms. Liesl was there, taking photographs as always. Marieta was grumbling the baby would get overexcited and never go down. Marianne was smiling and clapping her hands, Suzanne, with a wry expression, watching Marianne more than the baby. Had Monsieur Baillard been there? Sandrine frowned, she couldn’t remember. Had Raoul?

The gentle past faded once more. The pain was constant now, as if her insides were being turned inside out. She could feel the infection moving under her skin, hot and angry and swollen. As for her hands, she couldn’t feel them at all any longer.

But now she was aware of a weight on her chest that she couldn’t identify, a despair. As if the air had all been sucked out of her lungs.

She would have liked a child, a daughter. She and Raoul, a little girl, with her father’s lopsided smile and his passion. They could have called her Sophie, perhaps, to remind them of how life once had been. Sandrine shook her head. No, she would have a name for the future, not for the past.

‘Vida,’ she whispered to herself. The Occitan word for life. She thought Raoul would like it.

‘Are you still there?’ Lucie whispered.

Even though her voice was faint, Sandrine jumped at the sound.

‘I’m here.’

‘What time is it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘It’s not night?’

‘No, it’s daytime. The sun is still high.’

Overhead, Sandrine heard the sound of an aeroplane. Why could she hear a plane? Hadn’t they all gone now? Hadn’t they?

‘I don’t think anyone’s coming,’ Lucie said, a heartbeat later.

‘Raoul will have found out where we’ve been taken,’ Sandrine said quickly. ‘Marianne, too. They’ll work it out and they’ll come. You’ll see.’

‘If we’re patient . . .’ Lucie spoke so softly now that, despite the silence of the room, Sandrine could barely hear her.

‘That’s right.’

‘But it’s not night?’

‘No.’

‘The thing is, kid, I can’t see anything. Everything’s dark.’

Sandrine felt tears spring to her eyes. ‘It must be the shadows of the trees.’

‘Ah . . . that’s good then,’ Lucie said. ‘I think I can hear the wind blowing through the trees, it must be that.’

‘That’s right,’ Sandrine said, trying not to cry.

Motes of dust danced in the slatted sunlight coming in through the windows high up in the tiny room. Like dancers, Sandrine thought, spinning silver in the white haze.

‘Thanks, kid,’ Lucie said softly, too softly now.

Sandrine heard Lucie’s breathing falter and knew she was dying. Knew there was nothing she could do. The bullet shifting beneath Lucie’s skin in the cartilage and bone of her shattered knee, the muscles and skin screaming around the entry wound. The infection setting in.

Sandrine knew her pain would pass soon too. Feared it would pass. And she was wondering now – after everything that had happened, the blackness that had engulfed them – if France could ever recover. If there could be forgiveness. If all those thousands, millions who had died would all be honoured and remembered. If their deaths would count for something, mean something. Their names on a wall, on a street sign, in the history books. Sandrine tried to bring each face to mind, one by one, like the names on the marble wall in the Place de l’Armistice.

She smiled and felt her mind drifting free. She didn’t believe in God – could not believe in a God that allowed such things to happen – but, at the same time, the seductive thought that her father might be somewhere, waiting for her, brought a smile to her parched lips. He would have liked Raoul, if ever they had met. Would have been proud to have him as a son-in-law.

She knew Liesl would care for Jean-Jacques like her own son until Max came back. With Marieta’s help, of course. Suzanne and Marianne would be there too. She wondered what Max would tell J-J about his mother. The diaries that Lucie had painstakingly kept would help. About how brave Lucie was, how she fought every moment of her life to keep him safe.

And Raoul, would he talk about her?

Sandrine looked down at her ripped clothes, at the tartan socks rescued from the house on the rue du Palais, threadbare and through at the heel now.

‘Really something,’ she murmured, remembering Lucie’s words on the day they’d first met.

She wanted more than anything to reach out and hold Lucie’s hand, though she didn’t seem frightened. All Sandrine could do was turn her head and watch. Lucie’s features seemed to be changing, shifting. She looked suddenly young, all the worry lines falling away from her eyes, the corners of her mouth. A girl with the world at her feet.

‘They’ll be here soon,’ Sandrine said.

Lucie didn’t answer. Sandrine wasn’t sure she was breathing any more.

Sandrine was floating in and out of consciousness, not tethered any more to the tattered, beautiful world. Not any more. She hoped it would be quick. And that, when it was all over, they would come to Baudrigues and find them. Know who they were. Remember their names.

‘Not much longer now,’ she whispered, finally allowing the tears to come. ‘Raoul will be here soon.’

She heard the sound of boots in the corridor outside, leather heels on the black and white tiles, then a key turning in the lock. A German soldier in a grey uniform, or was it green, coming towards them. Something in his hands, two hand grenades, and Sandrine realised they meant to leave no evidence. Nothing at all.

He leant forward to force one into Lucie’s mouth.

‘Leave her,’ she said quickly. ‘She’s gone. There’s no need.’

The soldier hesitated.

‘Please,’ Sandrine repeated, in a whisper this time.

The young man took a step back, then another, towards the open door. She thought she saw pity in his eyes, shame even. He paused on the threshold and put one of the grenades carefully down on the floor, then he shut the door and ran. The sound of his boots echoing in the distance.

The room seemed to be vibrating beneath her. Outside in the park there was a wave of explosions, glass shattering, wood ripping through the gardens. Fireworks, firecrackers, a sequence of snapping, cracking, bursting. Then, a single all-encompassing blast and Sandrine realised they were blowing up the entire munitions store.

‘Raoul,’ she whispered. ‘Raoul.’

The grenade came to rest against her leg. Now, she saw that the soldier had pulled the pin after all. There was to be no reprieve.

‘Mon còr,’ she said. The only words that mattered any more.

Author’s Note

Citadel is a work of fiction, although the imaginary characters exist against a backdrop of real events. It was inspired by a plaque in the village of Roullens, outside Carcassonne, commemorating the ‘Martyrs of Baudrigues’, the nineteen prisoners who were executed by fleeing Nazi forces on 19 August 1944, a matter of days before the Languedoc was liberated by its own people. Over time, most of the victims have been identified. There are three commemorative stones at Baudrigues: one apiece for the two leading members of the Aude resistance – Jean Bringer (‘Myriel’) and Aimé Ramond – and one listing nineteen other résistants, including two ‘unknown women’. Wondering about who those women might be was the starting point for this story.

Nearly seventy years after the end of the Second World War, estimates vary as to how many people were involved in the Resistance and the Maquis. By its clandestine nature, people could not admit to involvement at the time for fear of reprisal. Subsequently, a veil of secrecy fell over the années noires, which has only begun to lift in recent years. What is clear is that, following the invasion and occupation of the zone libre by German forces in November 1942 – and the introduction of forced labour laws, the hated service du travail obligatoire (STO) in February 1943 – there was a significant increase in Resistance activity in the South. This continued until the liberation of the Aude in August 1944.

It is also clear that, as the history of the Resistance in France was written, the ‘book of myths’ – to use Adrienne Rich’s phrase – women’s roles were underplayed. In part this is because many women themselves wished to forget and return to their ordinary lives, and in part because some historians overlooked the particular, and different, nature of women’s contributions. More than fifty thousand Médailles de la Résistance were awarded, both to those still alive and posthumously, though proportionately few were awarded to women. And of the 1,061 Croix de la Libération – presented by Général de Gaulle for exceptional acts of resistance and bravery – only six were given to women. Anecdotal evidence, not least talking to parents and grandparents of Carcassonnais friends, suggests there were many women involved in active roles in the Aude and the Ariège. I am indebted to contemporary accounts of female Resistance activity, in particular those of Lisa Fittko and Lucie Aubrac, as well as Margaret L. Rossiter’s excellent Women in the Resistance, H. R. Kedward’s In Search of the Maquis and Julien Allaux’s comprehensive La 2ème Guerre Mondiale dans l’Aude.

There was never – to my knowledge – an all-female network such as my imaginary réseau ‘Citadel’, nor is there any record of a Coustaussa Maquis. But there certainly were women involved in active roles in networks in the South. It is also important to note that the Resistance and Maquis in the Midi was far from being an exclusively French affair – German, Belgian, Polish, Czech, Austrian, Dutch and Spanish anti-fascists all fought alongside their French neighbours.

Finally, although the story is based around real events between 1942 and 1944 in the Aude, this is a novel, not an attempt to fictionalise what happened. My principal characters are wholly imagined and I have taken one or two historical liberties for the sake of the story. So although there was a demonstration in Carcassonne against Maréchal Pétain’s collaborationist Vichy government on 14 July 1942, there was no bomb attack and no one was killed. I have deliberately blurred exactly which organisation Leo Authié works for, to ensure he won’t be mistakenly identified with any real person in the Milice, Deuxième Bureau or Carcassonne Commissariat in those years. It is extremely unlikely that anyone would have been allowed into Le Vernet in August 1942, even with a senior-ranking French officer. There was no Couiza Maquis, no massacre of prisoners in Banyuls-sur-Mer or executions in Chalabre in July 1944, and no Gestapo/Milice attack on Coustaussa in August 1944. The stone capitelles do not date back to Roman times and finally, even though a cache of ancient codices was indeed found in caves outside the village of Nag Hammadi in December 1945 – twelve codices, plus eight leaves, containing fifty-two texts – the Codex of Arinius was not among them. That Codex is, I regret to say, entirely imaginary.

Kate Mosse

Carcassonne/Sussex, 2012

Acknowledgements

There are many people who have given help and support over the course of the researching, planning and writing of Citadel.

At Orion, I’m lucky to be looked after by so many enthusiastic, hard-working and professional people – sales, marketing, production, publicity, digital, audio, editorial and the lovely ladies on reception. Particular thanks go to Gaby Young, Anthony Keates, Mark Rusher, Mark Streatfeild, Juliet Ewers, Laura Gerrard, Jade Chandler, Jane Selley, Malcolm Edwards and the legendary Susan Lamb. My publisher Jon Wood and my editor Genevieve Pegg – helped by Eleanor Dryden in the closing stages of the project – have been extraordinary, even by their standards. Their support, speedy work and enthusiasm for Citadel have made all the difference.

Grateful thanks to all at LAW, in particular Alice Saunders and the incomparable Mark Lucas, who has not only been a great support and a wonderful friend, but also a terrier-like editor (despite the digital notes!). Also everyone at ILA, in particular Nicki Kennedy and Sam Edenborough; and all at Inkwell, especially George Lucas (and for the bike . . .).

In Languedoc, I would like to thank the following friends and colleagues: James & Catherine Kinglake; Kate & Bob Hingson, Le Centre Culturel et de la Mémoire des Combattante, Carcassonne; Chantal & Pierre Sanchez; the Musée Départemental de la Résistance et de la Déportation, Toulouse; the staff at the Hôtel de la Cité, in particular Nathalie Sauvestre and Jane Barnard; everyone at the Jardin de la Tour and at Bar Félix; Patricia Corbett and Jean Dodelin of the Centres des Monuments Nationaux; Miriam Filaquier of the Aude Tourist Board; everyone at Cultura Carcassonne and the Librarie Papeteire Breithaupt; at the Mairie in Carcassonne, Jean-Claude Perez, Maire, and Chef de Cabinet, Christophe Perez; André Viola, Président du Conseil général de l’Aude and Jean Brunel, Chef de Cabinet; René Ortega, Maire de Lagrasse.

At the Defence Academy of the UK, Lt Col. John Starling, Martyn Arthur and Phil. Thanks, too, to Chris Hunter for arranging the best-ever research day out in Shrivenham.

Finally, as all authors know, it’s friends and family who bear the brunt of deadlines and pre-publication jitters. There are so many people who’ve given practical help, encouragement and friendship during the course of writing Citadel that I can’t list everyone – and of course, all errors are mine – but special thanks go to Jonathan Evans (not least for all the photos), Rachel Holmes, Robert Dye (for Coustaussa), Lucinda Montefiore (for the rosé); Peter Clayton (for Amélie and the Mums); the Dancing Queens, Julie Pembery and Cath O’Hanlon (and Tom P and Sam O’H for Chapter 5!); Patrick O’Hanlon; Jack Penny (for Granny R’s G&T and bikes); Suzie Wilde (for The Blue Guide), Harriet Hastings, Amanda Ross, Tessa Ross, Maria Rejt, Sandi Toksvig (for the slippers), Lydia Conway, Paul Arnott, Jane Gregory, Diane Goodman, Alan Finch, Dale Rooks, Tim Bouquet, Sarah Mansell, Janet Sandys-Renton, Mike Harrington, Bob Pearson, Bob & Maria Pulley and Jenny Ramsay (for the Latin!). Also neighbours Jon and Ann Shapiro, Linda and Roger Heald, Sue and Phil Baker.

My family have been a tremendous support during the writing of Citadel and without such practical help and encouragement a big writing project is nigh on impossible. So love and thanks to my sisters Caroline Grainge and Beth Huxley and their husbands Chris Grainge and Mark Huxley. My love to my fabulous mother, Barbara Mosse, to my much-loved, much-missed late father, Richard Mosse, and to my brilliant mother-in-law, Rosie Turner (for all the coffee and dog-walking!).

Finally, as always, my largest thanks, love and gratitude go to my wonderful children Martha and Felix – who are always so enthusiastic and proud – and to my amazing husband, Greg, for his tireless hard work and editorial support, love and incredible patience. Without these three, nothing would matter at all.

Bibliography

We are, I am, you are by cowardice or courage the ones who find our way back to this scene carrying a knife, a camera a book of myths in which our names do not appear.

from Diving into the Wreck ADRIENNE RICH (1973)