“Very clear, sir.”
Meier fell silent, eyeing Bergmann. “Here are my initial orders. Draw up a plan on how you intend to proceed on your special mission and submit it to me within three days. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now go see my executive officer to coordinate support for your operation. Dismissed.”
Bergmann’s cheeks and the back of his neck were aflame as he left Meier’s office. He could not recall ever having received such a scathing rebuke. He had been so taken aback that he had forgotten to give the extended arm salute with the crisp Nazi farewell.
Like a man on a mission, he went straight to the adjutant’s office. The major who filled the role was much more intimidated by his uniform than Meier had been and was only too pleased to allow the duty driver to take Bergmann to the maison d'arrêt.
There, Bergmann stalked into the administrator’s office. Without offering a greeting, he presented himself in front of the official’s desk and clicked his heels. On seeing him, the man rose nervously.
“Please update me on the status of the investigation into Kallsen’s murder.”
The administrator trembled slightly. “Nothing has changed,” he said. “We have not established that the death was a homicide.”
“What about the autopsy.”
“Sir, your last instruction was that we should store the body and wait for your own medical examiner to perform that operation. We followed your orders, but no German coroner has appeared.”
Bergmann grimaced, remembering that he had, indeed, given such an instruction. “Has anyone from our feldgendarmerie coordinated with you?”
The administrator shook his head.
Angrily, Bergmann returned to the battalion headquarters and strode into the adjutant’s office. “If you will be so kind,” he said perfunctorily, “I need to use your secure telephone line.”
Two minutes later, he recognized the voice of his new higher SS commander’s second-in-command. “Things are progressing well,” he said. “If possible, I need a squad here in two days fully prepared to act.” For justification, he cited his intent to seek out Kallsen’s killer.
“I’ll also need a medical examiner. The unit here is dragging its feet on establishing the cause of death for the Kallsen case.” As an apparent afterthought, he added, “And could I possibly receive the full background dossier on Oberstleutnant Meier? I’d like to learn more about my local commander.”
He listened to a read-back of his requests and hung up. Satisfied, he went to seek out the battalion executive officer. Passing by Meier’s office once more, he sneered, nearly tripping over a woman on her knees mopping the floor.
“Get out of the way,” he berated her, and then glanced at the door to Meier’s office. “Weakling,” he muttered. “You have less authority than you think.”
In the wine cellar under the destroyed restaurant, Ferrand Boulier gathered his group. It had grown since the night he had sent his daughters south with Nicolas. The numbers alone presented a security risk as members entered and exited the building. Sooner or later, an enemy soldier would notice. Worse yet, Nazi sympathizers could already have infiltrated. Beyond that were common-sense safety concerns: too many people in too small a space with a single exit. One hand grenade would cause a massacre.
“It’s been too quiet,” he told his partisans. “We can’t operate the way we have been. The security risk is too high. That said, we evacuated a lot of threatened people into the south of France, including family and friends, and British and French soldiers.” He paused to let that sink in.
“We have to disperse into small teams where only the members of each group will know what their teammates are doing. I’m sure the phone lines will be cut soon, so we’ll set up a system of couriers.
“The German army will not let Kallsen’s death go easily. We just received word that Bergmann is back in Dunkirk, and now he wears the uniform of the SS. His first stop after checking in at his battalion headquarters was at the maison d'arrêt. He wanted to know about the progress on the investigation into Kallsen’s death.”
A murmur floated through the cellar.
Ferrand held up his hand. “We don’t have much time. When you leave this cellar tonight, you won’t come back. Right now, we need to form into three-person teams. Each team will designate a courier. Choose that role carefully. It is a dangerous one. He or she needs to blend in, not draw attention. Tell no other teams who that is, where you’re going, or where you’ll operate. I’ll untangle any conflicts. We’ll establish identity codes so that when you receive a message by courier, you’ll know it’s genuine.”
“We’ll have a lot of teams,” someone called out. “Can you handle them all?”
“Good point,” Ferrand replied. “We’ll establish a communications structure. Everyone should remember the founding principles of our French Revolution: ‘Liberty, Equality, Fraternity.’ We’re all equals, and we don’t have time for petty jealousies. Any hierarchies will result from operational needs whether that be a skill, experience, proximity, or some other mission imperative.”
Men and women had already begun discussing among themselves. Ferrand held up his hand and called for quiet.
“We have two more things to resolve,” he said. The murmuring died down. “Bergmann will take retribution in my neighborhood again,” Ferrand continued. “I’m sure of it. We have to get those people out.”
Total silence descended on the room. “That neighborhood is guarded,” someone called out. “No one is allowed in or out.”
“And that is exactly the type of
