One Shot Kill (19 page)

‘Next time I see you I’ll pay you five francs,’ Justin said meekly, as the noise of the train subsided. ‘But you’re ripping me off so much, it’s hardly worth riding the train any more.’

The older cop slapped Justin so hard that he went down.

‘You remember who you are, and who we are,’ the younger cop snapped.

As Justin got to his feet he was fighting off tears. Marc put a hand on his throwing knife and almost wished for an excuse to use it.

‘Out of our sight,’ the older cop said. ‘And don’t forget our money.’

Justin scrambled away eagerly, but the younger cop tugged on a strap around Justin’s shoulder.

‘And what’s this?’ he asked

Marc’s jaw dropped: Justin was still wearing the small pack he’d taken from Paul when they’d first met. The older cop’s eyes widened, because he knew exactly what it was.

‘Where did you find that?’ he asked. ‘What’s inside it?’

When you jump out of an aeroplane, you need two free hands for steering and the parachute, which rules out carrying anything on your back. Any equipment a parachutist carries has to be inside a pocket, or in a sausage-shaped canvas bag strapped to your thigh.

‘Where did you find a sausage bag?’ the older cop said, as the younger one tugged the strap so hard that Justin’s head snapped back. He then used the strap to lift Justin off the ground and swing him head first against the side of the signal hut.

‘Stop it,’ Justin whined.

‘Best to answer us when we speak,’ the younger cop shouted.

You couldn’t have two untrustworthy cops taking Justin into custody with Paul’s equipment, so Marc went for his knife. Goldberg made the same decision a half-second faster and jumped out from the other side of the hut.

‘Excuse me, officers,’ he said, in French that came with a New York accent.

As the officers turned around, Goldberg fired two shots with a silenced pistol, getting them both between the eyes.

‘Jesus,’ Justin yelled, hitting the ground as his tormentor dropped him.

The silenced gun pulsed twice more as Goldberg put two clinical shots through the policemen’s hearts.

‘Oh, God,’ Justin said, as he crawled away. He felt queasy even before he dared to look back at the blood and brains splattered all over the wooden hut.

‘Justin, you did great,’ Marc said, as he offered the boy a hand. ‘Don’t be scared. Keep your voice low, take slow deep breaths.’

As Justin got up, Goldberg went up three steps and kicked in the padlocked door of the disused signal box.

‘How much water have you got in your canteen?’ Goldberg asked.

‘Not much,’ Marc said.

Goldberg pulled a half-full canteen out of his jacket and threw it to Marc. ‘Use that to wash the worst of the gunge off the hut. I’ll drag the bodies inside. They’ll find them eventually, but it should buy us long enough to clear the area.’

As Marc pulled up a handful of grass and used it to wipe down the side of the hut, Goldberg removed the dead cops’ watches, wallets and identity papers before dragging them into the signal hut. There wasn’t much chance that the cops would think it was a robbery, but there was no harm in trying to make it look that way.

The older cop was twice Goldberg’s weight and Justin had regained enough composure to grab his ankles as the American struggled to drag him up the three steps.

The side of the hut cleaned up fairly well, but there was nothing they could do about the pooled blood on the ground. From a distance it didn’t look as obvious as two dead bodies on the ground, but the next person to stroll around the back of the signal box would dip their boot in blood.

‘Justin, lead us home,’ Goldberg said, after a final glance around.

Rather than go back along the tracks, they walked down an overgrown path, crossed a road and reached Justin’s house via land behind cottages at the base of the railway embankment.

Inside Justin’s home, Luc, Paul and Henderson had ditched their combat gear, scrubbed up and changed into French civilian clothes, while Sam had taken the fourth turn in brown bathwater and was trying to dry off using a ragged and extremely wet towel.

‘Good to see you again,’ Marc said, when he stepped through to the kitchen and found Edith pouring a big saucepan of boiling water into an iron bathtub. ‘Mostly better now?’

‘A few scars and headaches. But not too bad,’ she said.

As Marc began unbuttoning his coal-black combat gear, Goldberg was updating Henderson on the situation at the signal box.

‘Shit happens,’ Henderson said, keeping his tone mellow because Justin was clearly in mild shock. ‘It’s very unlikely that anyone will miss the bodies until we’re out of here, so we stick to our plan.’

‘Who goes where, exactly?’ Luc asked.

Henderson paused for a second. ‘Since you’re already washed, Rosie can take you and Sam out to Joseph Blanc’s house. Take the dirty combat gear and burn it as soon as you get there. Cut off any metal buttons and make sure nothing identifiable remains in the ashes. When Marc and Paul are washed, we’ll take the canisters up to Dr Blanc’s surgery—’

Rosie interrupted. ‘I managed to get hold of a handcart for you. We never get checkpoints around here and it’s market day, so nobody will take much notice provided you cover the canisters over with straw. One of the iron bathtubs also belongs to the doctor and she wants it back in time for morning surgery.’

‘Excellent,’ Henderson said. ‘It’s risky moving this amount of gear long distance in daylight, so we’ll stay at Dr Blanc’s surgery until dark.’

‘Edith will stay here and help Justin clean up before his mother and younger sisters get home,’ Rosie added. ‘All being well, we’ll carry the canisters out to a spot I’ve found in the woods after dark.’

Justin’s night-time coal-scavenging trips meant he was used to sleeping through the day.

He needed to pee when he woke just after 4 p.m. The house was empty. His mother was at work and he’d arranged for his little sisters to be out of the way at his aunt’s house when Henderson’s team arrived, so rather than traipse out to the toilet in the back yard he crossed the room, pulled down the front of his shorts and fired a stream of urine through an open first-floor window, watering plants in the overgrown yard below.

‘You mind my damned washing,’ the woman who lived in the adjoining cottage shouted, as she shook her wrinkled fist.

‘Good afternoon, Madame Vial,’ Justin said cheerfully, waving as he continued to pee.

‘I had a big yellow streak on my petticoat last washday. Your mother might ignore it, but your father will be home some day and
he’ll
sort you out.’

‘I’m sure he will,’ Justin said, as he tried to hide a grin.

Even in the strongest winds, Justin’s pee never came within ten metres of Madame Vial’s washing. She was actually a nice old girl, but she was lonely and blamed Justin and his sisters for all sorts of imaginary problems because it gave her something to gossip about.

‘Did you see the apples I left by your back door?’ Justin asked, as he shook off.

‘You’re filthy!’ Madame Vial said, ignoring the question.

Justin wore a huge smile as he walked back towards his mattress – he wasn’t a bad person, but he enjoyed teasing his elderly neighbour more than he should have.

He reckoned it would be another hour before his mum got in from work, but as Justin snuggled back under his filthy bed sheet he heard a squeal, like the brakes of a bus or truck. Since no bus ran out here and French people didn’t get a petrol ration it could only be Germans.

There was a lot of shouting outside as he belted downstairs to take a look. He peered through the glass in his front door and panicked at the sight of an open-backed truck, with grizzled troops jumping off the rear platform.

Clearly someone had found the two dead cops and was pissed off about it. Even worse, it didn’t look like the sedate middle-aged men who manned the local garrison where his mother worked. They were a rough-looking crew who must have driven in from Rennes. There were also two plain-clothes men, who sent a chill down Justin’s back because they looked like Gestapo.

The man in charge was tall, with cropped fair hair and a full-length leather jacket. Justin spoke no German but it didn’t take a genius to work out that he was ordering his men to fan out and knock on the doors of the eleven cottages in his street.

Justin’s first thought was that he didn’t want to face the Gestapo dressed in boxers and vest, so he bolted upstairs to dress. Madame Vial was on her doorstep shouting something as he whipped on a shirt and trousers.

Someone thumped on Justin’s front door, and someone was shouting, ‘Everybody line up in the street,’ in bad French.

Answer the door or try to escape?

Justin pictured the two dead railway cops in his head, as his heart raced. His mum had freaked out when she’d realised that Rosie was from the resistance. She’d reluctantly allowed him to help Rosie, but at that moment Justin was starting to wish that she hadn’t.

There was a crash as someone kicked in Justin’s front door. The detectives he’d seen in movies always had clever ways of tricking people into saying things they shouldn’t, and he was scared that that’s what he’d do if they got hold of him.

As two Germans entered the hallway downstairs Justin ran to the window he’d just peed out of, balanced briefly on the window ledge and jumped down into the plants. His own urine spattered his face as the dripping branches sprung backwards, then he started running, terrified that the Germans had sent someone to cover the back of the houses.

If they caught him running it would be highly suspicious. And if they found out that the two dead cops had regularly hassled him for riding the coal train ...

But whether or not running had been a good idea, Justin was committed to it now. There would almost certainly be Germans coming up the side of the cottages, so he went flat out across thirty metres of open ground and began scrambling up the embankment towards the railway line.

The tall hats of two gendarmes were visible beyond the railway bridge and there was a big gathering of French railwaymen and German soldiers further along by the water tower. A cargo train was trundling in slowly and he decided to cross before it cut him off.

The embankment on the other side of the tracks was steeper, and he had to shuffle down on his bum before jumping off a metre-and-a-half brick wall. It was a sunny June afternoon and the cargo train cast flickering shadows as Justin found himself in a narrow strip of woodland with the neatly-aligned trees of an orchard stretching into the distance.

After a few seconds with trembling hands tucked under his armpits, taking deep breaths and trying to get his nerves under control, Justin decided that he was probably OK: nobody had seen him escape, and now he could stroll about at normal pace. If anyone stopped him he’d say that he was heading out to pick apples.

The safest option would have been to stay in hiding by the wall, but Justin thought he ought to warn the team hiding inside Dr Blanc’s surgery ten minutes’ walk away.

*

Marc, Paul, Goldberg and Henderson had spent the day getting on each other’s nerves in a windowless second-floor box room. They all tried to sleep, but the equipment and canisters took up most of the floor space, it was stifling hot and as there were no toilet facilities the smell emanating from a rapidly filling chamber pot wasn’t great either.

‘She’s a big girl,’ Paul whispered, as they listened to Dr Blanc thumping upstairs towards them. ‘I’m bloody starving. I hope she’s planning to feed us soon.’

‘She said we can move around once her surgery’s finished,’ Marc said, as he stretched into a yawn. ‘Hopefully that’s not long now.’

‘Mr Henderson,’ Dr Blanc shouted.

Henderson opened the door of the tiny room and looked down the stairs.

‘Soldiers,’ Dr Blanc blurted. ‘They must have found the dead railway police.’

‘OK, keep calm,’ Henderson said, as he reached into the room for his machine gun. ‘What are they doing exactly?’

‘They’ve blocked off the intersection. There’s about a dozen of them, going from door to door.’

‘How many patients in your waiting room?’ Henderson asked.

‘None. My nurse just left. I saw them arrive as I locked the front door behind her. I was about to call you out for something to eat and drink.’

Henderson glanced at the others. ‘I’m going down to look, be ready to move on my mark.’

Dr Blanc was short of breath as she let Henderson by, then followed him downstairs. ‘If they find you here,’ she said, close to hysterical. ‘I have so many patients and there’s no other doctor within ten kilometres.’

‘If it comes to that, you don’t know us,’ Henderson said. ‘We saw you arrive at your surgery. One of us was injured. We put a gun to your head and forced you to take us inside.’

Henderson peeled back the heavy curtain over the window of Dr Blanc’s examination room and didn’t like the scene in the street. German army trucks had parked across the road at either end of the small strip of shops and businesses. Soldiers were knocking on doors and ordering everyone to line up in the cobbled street.

‘Marc, Paul,’ Henderson shouted. ‘Go downstairs and try to see if there are any Germans around the back.’

As the boys jumped half a flight of stairs at a time, Henderson peered back through the window, trying to work out if the Germans were being thorough. If they were calling people out into the street they could stay in hiding, but if they were searching inside houses he had a much more serious problem.

But with Germans working from opposite ends of the street and closing fast, he had no choice but to assume the worst.

‘How’s it looking out back?’ Henderson shouted.

‘No sign of anything,’ Paul shouted back.

‘They don’t know we’re here,’ Henderson said. ‘They’re just putting on a show of force to frighten the locals. But we can’t risk them coming inside and finding the canisters. Is the handcart still out back?’

‘Yep,’ Marc shouted.

‘Right,’ Henderson said, as he looked up the stairs. ‘Sergeant Goldberg, we need to make a break for it. You deal with boys and canisters. I’m going to sneak out and make a distraction to enable you to get away.’