Blue Madonna (11 page)

“Huguenots,” Vera said. “French Protestants persecuted in the sixteenth century by the Catholic majority. After thousands were slaughtered in 1572, many fled or went into hiding. Châteaus like this one provided hiding places for them.”

“Is Count Vasseur of Huguenot blood?” Kaz asked.

“He is,” Vera said. “But it is a closely held secret. If the Germans discover that fact—especially one as smart as Zeller—they might suspect the building has its secrets.”

Light flashed, blindingly white, and seconds later the crack of thunder rumbled like distant guns.

Chapter Thirteen

It was dark
when the telephone rang. It was for Vera. She cupped her hand and spoke softly, then nodded and replaced the receiver. “The invasion. It's been postponed.”

We stared out the window. The wind had come up fiercely, rain spattering against the bow window. I moved closer to the coal fire and thought about the thousands of men on transports out in the Channel, wallowing in this filthy weather, having to endure another day.

“We'll go over this again tomorrow,” Vera said. Then she poured herself a drink and took a seat on the couch.

I sat next to her, leaning in to whisper, “How long has Diana been in Dreux? I worry about her.”

“A month now,” she said. “She's terribly smart and fit in very quickly. She's keen to do her job. Don't get in her way, Captain Boyle. I can understand the temptation, but you have your job, and she has hers.”

“After the invasion, her job changes, doesn't it?”

Vera took a slow drink, savoring it and staring into the fire. “Yes. But we don't want to lose the cover story she and Sonya have created. Or endanger the count. The Resistance will become active, but I don't expect Diana to be leading the charge. Her job is to coordinate Noble and maintain contact with London. We'll want information on German troop movements, that sort of thing. We don't need her running about with a Sten gun shooting Nazis, if that's what you're worried about.”

“I think I'd rather take my chances with the Sten,” I said. “I don't know if I'd have the nerve to play her game.”

“She's got nerve, all right,” Vera said. “Let's hope she has equal parts luck.”

We sat down to a dinner prepared by the British MPs who guarded the place. Afterward, I had no idea what we ate.

The next day we poured over maps, memorizing routes around Dreux. I studied the face of Major Zeller, wondering what kind of guy he was. He looked cheerful. But perhaps that was because he'd recently captured an SOE agent. Or won at chess.

I went through the gear that had been stockpiled in my room. A uniform with sergeant's stripes. Paratrooper jump boots. Thompson submachine gun, lots of ammo. Grenades, flashlight, trench knife, .45 automatic, first-aid kit, canteen, and K rations. I cleaned the Thompson, sharpened the knife, and then checked in with Kaz. He packed a book as I cleaned his Sten gun. We had everything we needed.

“We must not appear too friendly,” Kaz said. “Topper and I should begrudge the burden of a criminal in our ranks. It will lend credence to your identity.”

“I'll do my best to show my resentment of all officers,” I said. “We need to make sure Diana doesn't spill the beans. There's no reason she should know either of us.”
Juliet
, I reminded myself. I had to get used to that name. The less anyone knew about her identity, the better.

“It will require only a few seconds. A quick shake of the head, the right look,” Kaz said. I hoped he was right.

The rest of the time was a blur. All I knew was that the rain finally stopped. After another nondescript meal during which no one said a word, Vera told us to get ready.

Oddly enough, I couldn't wait to leave. I wanted to get to Diana, sure, but that wasn't the reason. It was the waiting. I wanted to get going, to see if we'd land in once piece. To see what lay beyond.

Keen. That's how Vera had described Diana. The word fit her perfectly, and maybe it was because I'd been thinking of her so much, but I felt keen as well. Even though there were only a handful of us in this little cottage, I knew we were part of something greater, something that the history books might talk about someday.

It would be nice to live to read about it.

Part Two

France
•
June 6, 1944

Chapter Fourteen

Below us, ships
filled the Channel. To the far horizon, wakes churned the inky water as vessels of every size departed English ports and made for the French coastline. Moonlight rippled across the waves, shimmering slivers of silver in the night. I glanced at the luminous dial on my watch. Forty minutes past midnight. It was the sixth of June.

Off to the west, over the Cotentin Peninsula, splashes of light arced high into the sky. Antiaircraft fire. Pinpricks of light burst brightly and then faded as C-47s loaded with thirty men were hit, burned, and crashed.

The tiny Lysander flew on, slipping by the devastation, nearly invisible in its matte black finish. The high canopy afforded a grand view all around, from stars glimpsed through the thin cloud cover to the vast fleet beneath us. We were cramped, our gear stuffed around us. Kaz had a tight grip on the priceless wireless cradled in his lap, nestled in a small, nondescript brown suitcase.

“Look ahead,” he said, shaking my arm.

We were entering a new realm of darkness. No moonlight reflecting off waves, only inky shadows cast from the full moon. Landfall; the coast of France. It slipped under the plane, and soon we were traveling across the blacked-out enemy landscape.

“Where are we?” I asked Lieutenant Vaughn, our pilot, leaning forward and raising my voice over the engine's drone.

“We've crossed west of Deauville on the coast,” he said. “Le Havre is on our port side. You can make out the mouth of the Seine, see?”

I did. The glassy sheen of water thrust itself into the landscape, undulating through the curves of the river. “How do you find your way?” There were no navigation instruments on the Lysander. These flights were done by compass and dead reckoning. Bad choice of words.

“I keep the river in sight, but not too close. See how the land rises up ahead? We stay with those heights for another half hour. The valley of the Seine to the left, the valley south of Caen to our right. Couldn't be simpler, mate.”

“What happens in half an hour?” I began to make out the features below and saw what he meant. We were following the spine of a series of low, rolling hills, with flat plains on either side. It would have been impossible without the moonlight.

“We follow a main road east. Takes us over Dreux, then we touch down, and off you go. That's supposing your pal sets the flares.”

I nudged Kaz and tapped on my watch. Five minutes before one. By now, Topper should be on the ground. Hopefully alive. If there had been any Germans near the drop zone, the sound of the four-engine Stirling and equipment canisters floating to the ground would definitely have tipped them off.

As the minutes wore on, a sense of isolation crept up on me. The invasion fleet was far to our rear, vanished from sight. The antiaircraft fire was nothing but a faint glow in the distant sky. Our plans and hopes seemed foolish now, nothing but fine ideas fed by a warm fire and brandy. Was I really going to find Diana down there? Hell, even finding Topper looked like a thousand-to-one shot.

The aircraft banked, and I picked out the roadway below. The
route de Paris
, Vaughn informed us. He recited the towns as we passed them, the names familiar from studying the map. Verneuil, Tillières, Nonancourt. Each was barely visible, no more than a clump of buildings at a crossroads, lit by the glow of silvery moonlight. He banked again, giving Dreux, a much larger town, a wide berth.

“The Forest of Dreux, dead ahead,” he announced. Again, a poor choice of words, but I understood. The land rose into a long plateau, a swath of unbroken woods cloaking the ground. Here and there patches showed through the dense canopy. Fields and meadows, visible for a second, then gone. The plane slowed, descending in a wide circle. If the Germans were waiting, we'd be an easy target.

Vaughn flew another circuit, banking the Lysander now and then to better scan the ground below. I realized I had been holding my breath and finally gasped for air.

“There we go,” he said, the relief in his voice palpable. He signaled downward, slashing his hand to the right. Five pinpricks of light, arrayed in an inverted L, marking the landing area. Kaz and I grinned at each other like kids. Topper was okay, and we'd found him.

Vaughn went in for the landing. That was when I realized those tiny lights weren't getting any bigger, and we were landing in the dark on an unknown field in the middle of the woods. Suddenly Germans didn't seem that big of a problem.

My stomach dropped as the Lysander descended, faster than seemed safe. Vaughn eased up on the throttle as the ground seemed to surge up and strike the undercarriage, hard, jolting my spine. We bounced, once, twice, before the aircraft settled down, and we were taxiing, the wind and the prop blast blowing the grass in every direction. Vaughn turned the plane, lining up on the flares.

“This is your stop, gents. Good luck,” he said, sliding the canopy open. I went out first, stepping down a ladder permanently bolted to the side of the plane. Lysander pilots didn't like spending much time on the ground, and this made for a quick exit. Kaz handed me the wireless set, then our rucksacks and weapons.

A figure trotted out from the tree line. Vaughn aimed a pistol at him but held his fire when he saw it was Topper.

“Welcome to France,” Topper said, a mad gleam in his eyes. We hustled the gear away from the plane as our pilot waved and pulled the canopy shut. He roared off down the field, rising and vanishing in the darkness. He'd been on the ground three minutes, tops.

“Everything go okay?” I asked Topper.

“I think so. We still have to collect the canisters.” We were whispering, even though moments ago the Lysander's engine had been roaring away. There was a breeze rustling the leaves, the only other sound the thumping of my heart.

“Where?” Kaz asked, his back to us, Sten gun at the ready as he stared into the dark.

“First the flares,” Topper said. He told Kaz to move our gear farther into the trees and stand guard. Then we ran the length of the landing field, scraping holes in the ground with bayonets and burying the still-burning flares. We paused at the far end of the meadow, moonlight breaking through as the thin clouds parted. Deep woods were at our back, the tree trunks thick, with gnarled roots spreading at the base. Beyond the field on one side, the land sloped downward, the pattern of cultivated fields and a distant church spire visible in the gloom.

We caught our breath and dashed off to rejoin Kaz. Now the only sound came from our boots brushing against the long grasses. As we drew closer, Kaz leaned out from the shadows, motioning with his hand for us to go low. We stopped a few yards short of cover. Topper stood with his back to mine, our weapons aimed at an unknown threat.

Silence.

Cold sweat dripped down the small of my back.

Slowly sounds from the woods overcame the silence. A rustling of leaves. A scurry in the underbrush, a small creature on the prowl.

A
boom
echoed in the distance. An explosion miles away. We duck-walked to Kaz, who held a finger to his lips as his gaze flitted about. He raised his hand in the direction of a worn path that skirted the edge of the field and vanished into the woods, then cupped his ear.

We strained to hear anything unusual. A soft wind whispered through the leaves. Kaz shrugged. “I thought I heard voices,” he whispered. “What do you think that explosion was?”

“The Resistance,” Topper said quietly. “Maybe a bridge. London would have alerted them by now. A coded message to attack.”

“Of course,” I said, trying not to betray my nervousness. It was eerie being out here, alone on a hilltop in enemy territory, not knowing who might be closing in or what was going to happen next. A lot of guys must be having that same feeling right now. “Should we get the canisters?”

Topper raised his hand to silence us. This time it wasn't the wind.

Footsteps thumped within the forest. A man's voice, indecipherable.

We crouched behind trees, weapons aimed at the sounds. More noise from the footpath—a group of men advancing toward the field. A figure emerged from the gloom, rifle in his hands, then faded back into cover.

“They must have seen the parachutes,” Kaz whispered.

“Or heard the bloody Lysander,” Topper countered in a low voice. “I'll take the radio; you two grab your gear. They might be circling around us, for all we know.”

We began to crawl backward, dragging our equipment. If the Germans spotted us, we'd be dead in seconds. Even worse, captured. Behind us, the land sloped away, a ravine promising cover for our escape.

A quick, high-pitched laugh echoed from within the darkened lane, then nothing.

A nervous German? A Gestapo agent anticipating an interrogation?

More footsteps and thrashing about in the woods. Then they were running into the field, ten or more of them, some waving rifles. Topper went up on one knee, his Sten gun aimed dead center.

“Où êtes-vous? Qui est là?”
It was French. I laid my hand on Topper's arm, signaling him not to fire.

“They're asking where we are, who we are,” Kaz whispered.

“It could be the
Milice
,” Topper answered, meaning the Vichy fascist militia. It was evident they hadn't spotted us yet, but any movement might attract a hail of bullets.

“Vive la France! Vive de Gaulle!”
This was a girl's voice, and was followed by others shouting the same. “
Vive la libération!”

“Voici!”
Kaz shouted, standing up and announcing our presence. I was pretty sure it wasn't a clever trap, but I still kept my finger on the trigger.

Within seconds, we were engulfed by fifteen or so French partisans. A few grey-haired men, two young girls, some boys barely old enough to shave, and the rest sturdy working men, to judge by the rough hands and the smell of manure on their worn boots.

“Blessent mon cœur d'une langueur monotone,”
one of the men said, kissing me on both cheeks. I glanced at Kaz, who was busy being embraced by one of the girls as an old man pumped his hand.

“Wound my heart with a monotonous languor,” said another man, nodding as he spoke each word slowly and deliberately. “Yes?”

“Yes,” I said, shaking his hand, hoping to forestall another Gallic smooch as I tried to puzzle out his meaning. “Do you speak English?” I wanted to ask if he was nuts, talking about monotony, but he was carrying a German rifle.

“A little,” he said. “I am Cyril.
Bienvenue!
”

“Welcome, welcome,” one of the boys said, grasping my hand. “I speak English. I learn in school. Until the
Boche
tell us we must learn German.” He was grinning ear to ear, thick, curly black hair hanging over his forehead, his dark eyes wide with excitement.

“What does he mean,” I asked, “wounding his heart?”

“It is a poem from Radio
Londres
,” he said. “My name is Jean. We came as soon as we heard!”

“Radio London, he means,” Kaz said, extricating himself from several embraces.

“Yes, yes,” Jean nearly shouted. “The invasion, the liberation, it is at hand!”
Liberation
was the same word in French, and everybody whooped and hollered when he said it. One of the grey hairs produced a bottle and passed it around. I was ready for the marching band to show up.

“Silencieux!”
Kaz said, as loudly as he dared. The crowd looked disappointed, but they simmered down.
“Où sont les Allemands?”
Yeah, the Germans. Be nice to know if they were following this bunch.

“Yes, yes, many Germans in Dreux,” Cyril said. “We fight them now, yes?”

“Un moment,”
Topper broke in, pulling Kaz and me away from the crowd. He had a firm grip on the wireless. “We don't know who the hell these people are. Don't mention any names. We ask questions, but we don't tell them a damn thing, right?”

“Agreed. Let's ask them to take us to the local Resistance leader,” I said. “If that's Murat, we've got the right people.”

“We can have them carry the canisters,” Kaz said. “They are eager to help.”

“If they stay sober long enough,” I said, watching another bottle make the rounds. “How did they know we'd be here?”

“Cyril was quoting the French poet Paul Verlaine. ‘Autumn Song,' ” Kaz said. “It was probably one of those messages the BBC reads out every night.”

“Right. Meaning the invasion is coming, or a call for a general uprising,” Topper added. “This drop zone has been used before, so they guessed it would be tonight.”

“I'd like to be sure about that,” I said, studying the growing party that was going on a few yards away. “But there's no time for questions now. Let's get them to work.”

Kaz took charge, and I took the bottle. It was cognac, mostly gone. I raised it to Topper and took a swig. Then he did the same, wincing after a healthy gulp. He trotted off, leading a group of chattering Frenchmen in search of canisters. Kaz led another group, the two young women at his side, of course.

Had these people guessed correctly about a drop tonight? Or had word somehow leaked out?
Impossible
, I decided, peering into the dark shadows around me. No one outside of a handful of security-minded types in England knew we were coming. And from the few firearms carried by the
Résistants
, they were in dire need of weapons. Their arsenal consisted of one German rifle, a shotgun, one pistol, and a couple of old bolt-action rifles that might have been surplus during the Franco-Prussian War. A hike up here was safer than attacking anything short of a sleeping sentry.

I considered another drink, but instead I stashed the bottle in the bushes and covered it with a branch. The bar was closed.