“Terrible,” was all Caroline could say in reply.
“You are not French,” the woman said.
“I’m certain that is obvious,” Caroline said. It was an opening to a conversation and, as rusty as her French was, she was overcome with pleasure to speak to another human being. “I am Canadian, but not French Canadian. I’m traveling with my husband and son.”
“Your infant is so young,” the woman said with a touch of disapproval. Caroline knew this was a faux pas on her part. It was not usual to bring newborns out in public so early.
“The room is so stuffy. I wanted Stephen to breathe some fresh air. I suppose I was mistaken,” she said and produced what she hoped was an ironic smile as she waved away a strand of cigar smoke.
The woman looked doubtful. Her husband paid no mind to the conversation as plates of lumpy soup were set on the table before them.
“Your husband is not with you?” Apparently, the woman was more curious than hungry.
“He’s away on business,” Caroline answered airily.
“Outside the city?”
“Yes.”
“And when do you expect him to return?” Caroline realized that the cigar smokers had ceased their own exchange and were listening to the conversation of the two women. The husband was slurping soup in a world of his own. She’d stepped in it good. How the hell could her “husband” be “away” on business with the entire German army surrounding the city?
“I’m not certain. I am worried, though. I begged him not to go. The danger, you know?” she said, feigning alarm. The woman’s face softened. She probably thought Caroline was some kind of idiot. Let her think that.
The woman introduced herself and her husband, and Caroline forgot the names as quickly as they were uttered.
“Caroline,” she said. “Caroline Tauber.”
The woman’s face darkened. Her husband looked up from his soup with narrowed eyes. The cigar smokers frowned in their fragrant fog.
“Well, I will leave you to dine in peace,” the woman sniffed and turned her back.
The waiter arrived then with a plate containing a wedge of runny cheese and a half loaf of coarse black bread. Caroline ate, grateful for the food as well as the silence, as bland as the former and uncomfortable as the latter was.
She finished her meal with two glasses of vin ordinaire and departed the dining room without any farewells from the married couple or the cigar trio. Their eyes followed her from the room.
Upstairs, an hour or so later, she was interrupted at nursing Stephen by a strident knock at the door.
She opened it to find the hotel registrar standing in the hallway regarding her with an arched eyebrow. Behind him stood a tall, broad man in a stained apron and the knobby nose of a heavy drinker. There was to be trouble, and the little man had brought some kitchen help to back him up.
“May I help you, monsieur?” she said.
“Where is your husband?” the registrar demanded. The bitch in the dining room had run to the management.
“He is away on business.”
“How can that be, with war at the city’s doorstep and the Germans days away from the heart of the city? I knew your husband was up to no good. He broke my lock. He arrived after curfew. Now he has departed, leaving a woman and baby behind?”
“He paid you well for these inconveniences,” she said, arms folded.
“What did you tell the other diners your name was?” His eyes gleamed.
Her reserve slipped a bit.
“Tauber, was it not?” He smiled, showing little yellow teeth.
“What of it?”
“Your husband—” he made the word sound like an obscenity “—signed my book as Monsieur P. Rivard. And Tauber, this is a German name, is it not?”
She began to protest. The obnoxious little man held up a hand and turned his face from her.
“You will remain in your room, and I will go to the police, or perhaps the guard. They will want to speak to you. Perhaps you will share the truth of this matter with them,” he said, meeting her eyes. “Patrice will stand at your door until I return. We shall see what this business is that your man is about, German bitch.”
With that, he slammed her door shut and she heard the key turn in the lock and footfalls departing for the stairs. The giant kitchen servant, Patrice, would be left behind to make certain she did not leave this room.
30
Unforgiving Options
A low overcast turned the light of the moon into a pale glimmer that cast blue highlights on the rocks. The Roman fort lay in a pool of black shadow shed from the hill above. The glow of signal torches guttered and flared as the night wind stirred. The village beyond was dark and the road empty of traffic. The Rangers saw no sign that the reinforcement column had arrived. They could expect them the following day for certain.
Through their NODs gear, they could see sentries moving along the ramparts atop the earthen walls. Within the camp no one was visible but an aquilifer of the Twenty-third stood alone before the command tent.
Lee and Bat led the way over the open ground with Chaz and Jimbo following at intervals. Boats remained in camp with the horses. This would be a strictly infantry operation. They were in full battle rattle. All but Lee wore the period-modified body armor. In addition to that, they were lumbered with sidearms, CamelBaks, ammo, night gear, and their rifles. Bat and Jimbo sported their Winchesters. Jimbo had a cut-down twelve gauge in a scabbard on his back and a belt of buckshot and slugs around his waist. Lee and Chaz humped their M4s and ammo and had attached underslung grenade launchers to the rifles. Bandoliers of the fat 40mm rounds were slung over their shoulders.
“Render unto Caesar, my ass.” Chaz chuckled drily as they set out over the broken ground to skirt the fort. They slipped easily past a widely spaced picket line
