“What if the residents won’t come out?”
“Then whatever happens to them rests on their shoulders. We’ll do our best, and that’s all we can do.” He let the moment linger as people exchanged comments.
“I’m looking for volunteers,” he said, and the room quieted down again. He raised his hand. “And if you volunteer, I will be there with you.”
A clamor broke out in the room as people celebrated his gesture, but Ferrand quickly hushed them. “We’ll establish a secure means of choosing and notifying the men and women who will participate. Right now, we have one more matter to discuss.”
The group trained expectant eyes on him. “Monsters like Bergmann will use every means possible to get information. We already saw that. Our brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, sons and daughters will be put in compromising positions, and then coerced to collaborate with the enemy. When that happens, we have to exert equal pressure to counter it.”
“What should we do?” a voice called from the back of the room.
Ferrand looked around sadly at the faces before him. He rubbed the back of his neck, his reluctance to speak on the subject evident.
“We are at war, and our actions must acknowledge that always. When we find collaborators, we’ll show no mercy. We will make public examples of them by slicing their throats, men or women, and leaving their bloody bodies where they can be seen. We’ll hang signs around their necks written in their own blood that say, ‘Collaborateur!’”
In the early hours of the next morning, Ferrand was alone in a dark room well within the burned-out wreckage of an apartment complex deep within the ruins of the city. The area had been struck by many bombs but nevertheless contained livable dwellings with beds, left-behind food, and in some instances, running water. He stood in front of a mirror. Pulling a lighter from his pocket, he flicked it, then held it close to his face and peered at his reflection in a mirror.
A gaunt face stared back at him, with deepened lines, eyes sunk in dark sockets, hair and beard uncut and scraggly. “What have I become?” he whispered.
The internal struggle that had brought him to the point of advocating for the summary execution of his own countrymen in the event of collaboration was one that had waged over the past week. He understood that the policy might one day require him to slice the throat of someone close to him, but he saw no other way to counterbalance the retribution that the German SS already meted out at the maison d'arrêt. His decision had been precipitated by the reappearance of Hauptman Bergmann. The lady who mopped the floors in the headquarters had given warning.
He stepped back from the mirror where he could see the shadow of his full self, his old body bent with age. His thoughts went to Amélie and Chantal, to Claude, and Nicolas. Are they safe? His heart fairly burst at the thought of his daughters, so far from home.
Ferrand regarded his dark reflection in the mirror once more. “What I am,” he muttered, answering his own question of moments before, “is a man who knows the ravages of war and will fight the devil with no holds barred to save my daughters, my family, and my country.”
32
One day earlier, June 19
London, England
Major Crockatt arrived at work early, as was his habit. His secretary, Vivian Brown, sprang up to meet him and intercepted him before he could enter his office.
“There’s a man sleeping in your office. I put him on your cot—”
“Why is he here?” He started to shove past Vivian, but she blocked his way.
“He came in early this morning, a soldier, and he looks wretched; like he’d been through hell’s trenches before coming here. I found him at the entrance. He asked anyone passing by how to get to MI-9. And sir.” She hesitated. “He has a little boy—a toddler.”
“A what? How did he get in here? Who let him pass through security?”
Vivian handed him an envelope. “This might explain things. After I read the document inside and the attached note, I vouched for him and brought him up.”
Slightly annoyed, Crockatt took the document and scanned it, his eyes pausing over “Littlefield” and “Captain Norman Savage.” He looked up. “Littlefield. Is that—”
“I think so, sir. He has three ribbons on one wrist. They’re faded, but aside from looking like death, he’s a dead ringer for MI-6’s Lieutenant Paul Littlefield. I took the liberty of calling down to Plymouth and managed to get Captain Savage on the line.”
She told him Jeremy’s story as related to her by the ship’s captain. “This Lieutenant Littlefield arrived at Paddington late last night, and he couldn’t find his sister. I take it he went by her house in a taxi, but it was empty, and he didn’t know how to reach his brother, so he asked the driver to take him to the MI-9 headquarters.”
“So much for secrecy,” Crockatt muttered. Then he rubbed his chin. “Poor sap,” he mused. “Amazing what he’s been through and that our thrown-together identity scheme actually worked. Call his brother. Get him over here, but don’t tell him why.” A perplexed expression crossed his face. “I didn’t know about the sister. Do we know her name?”
“Claire.”
“See if you can track her down as well.”
He stepped around the secretary. “Don’t worry. I’m just going to have a peek. I won’t wake him.” He cracked the door open and peered inside.
Jeremy slept soundly on the cot, curled up and facing the wall. Sleeping next to him and held against his chest was the little boy, as Vivian had said.
Crockatt gently pushed the door closed.
Paul Littlefield hurried to Crockatt’s office. He had taken Vivian’s call and tried to get her to divulge the subject, but she insisted that
