I stuffed the chocolates back into my bag and bolted, in case anyone had heard the shots and called for reinforcements. Grabbed the bicycle and pedalled hard, throwing myself behind a low rock wall only when I heard a vehicle pass. Cringed when I realised it was a transport, heading towards Laronde’s house.
Forcing my heartbeat to slow, I considered my options. Fleeing on the bicycle wasn’t possible. Too many people could have seen me and quite frankly, there was no way I’d be able to out-pedal the Gestapo. Franc Laronde was gone, maybe dead. He wouldn’t be able to help me, and without him, how in the blazes would I find the Resistance? What else was there? Hot-wiring a car? Without the right papers, I’d be caught at the first checkpoint.
I closed my eyes and remembered Madame Renard’s map. The lines criss-crossing the countryside. She was quite right: passenger trains were too risky.
But there was one other option, and it wasn’t far.
Chapter Three
Dim starlight revealed the men in dark coveralls, milling around outside a medium-sized station house on the far side of the tracks. Casks were lined up on the platform, ready for transfer. I breathed a small sigh of relief. I wouldn’t have long to wait for the train, and guessed that if it stopped here, then there would be other local stations like this, transporting wine east to Germany, or south towards Vichy. And frequent stops would give me plenty of opportunities to slip off once it was safe. Once far enough from Rouen, I’d be able to formulate a plan to get in touch with the local Resistance cells.
I crouched in the bushes and waited. Heard the engine before I saw it, clacking along the tracks, followed closely by flat carriages carrying tarpaulin-covered tanks. The train slowed as the container carriages came into sight and I crossed the strap of my bag over my head, leaving my hands free.
Getting on board proved surprisingly easy. Using the train itself to block me from view, I hauled myself onto the junction between the carriages and eased over until I could grip the lever. The sounds farther down the train hid the creak as I eased the door open and slid through, grateful that there were no locks. And if there wasn’t much room between the casks to manoeuvre, at least I was reasonably certain this carriage wouldn’t be opened until the train reached its ultimate destination. I eased to the floor and allowed myself to smile.
With a jolt, the train began to move. Braced against the casks, I held the Luger in my hand. Just in case.
The rhythm of the rails and the swish of wine had a lulling effect, and I only realised I’d slept when my head bumped against the wooden barrel. Pins and needles tortured my legs and I shifted as much as I could. How much time had passed? Was I far enough from Rouen yet?
Clickety-clack.
It was less than two days since I’d fled Paris and the journey was worse than I’d imagined. How did the couriers do it? Did they get used to the constant fear? The confinement? The overwhelming stench of burgundy that seeped from a broken cask?
Clickety-clack . . . THROMMMM . . .
The rhythm changed. It didn’t undulate. It was loud, insistent. And frightfully familiar.
A sick feeling radiated from the pit of my belly as I realised that trains were bombed all the time, and this train pulled more than just local vintages.
Oh, hell!
I tucked the Luger in the back of my skirt and scrambled to my feet.
An explosion rocked the train. Bracing myself, I leant hard on the latch. It moved easily enough, but the door refused to open. The blasted thing was either broken or disabled, and the RAF were trying to make sure the whole damn train was as well.
Another bomb exploded but the train continued forward. How the bomber could have missed a large object, following a predictable trail, was something I could only be grateful for, and if I had any chance of survival, I had to get out.
A whistling sound ended in a loud BOOM! The train shuddered and rocked from side to side.
Please, God, don’t let me die this way!
The carriage leant too far to the left. Wood protested, cracking. A couple of casks slipped their restraints and crashed into the little space by the door. I dropped to the ground and shielded myself as best I could as the train derailed and rolled. My stomach rolled with it, and I gagged.
Would Baker Street learn what had happened to me? Drowned in a cocktail of wine and vomit. What then? Would the very proper Miss Vera Atkins, Buckmaster’s second-in-command, write to my mother?
Dear Lady Anne.
I regret to inform you that your daughter, while on assignment, drowned in a sea of burgundy. You’ll be proud to know she did her best . . .
To what? Drink her way out? A high-pitched giggle escaped, ruthlessly cut off by a sob.
Think of the scandal! my mother would wail. If she could be bothered to read the letter.
Pull yourself together! Miss Atkins’s cool voice cut through my panic. You know what to do!
I forced a breath into my lungs, and another. I’d get out all right. Sod the scandal, I wasn’t ready to die. I pushed myself free of the casks and fought my way to the door. Any sound I made was inaudible over the roar of the engines and screaming voices.
Another bomb threw the carriage as if it were a child’s toy. I made myself as small as I could, held on until the motion stopped. I’d been battered by the casks, but nothing was broken.
Smoke stung my eyes and
