When the two men arrived in the room behind her, she had already bent over a man lying on a bed. He stared up, sightless. Lifeless.
Anna turned grief-filled eyes on Bergmann. “You did this.” She dropped her head onto the corpse’s chest and sobbed. “Ferrand, what have they done to you? To us?”
Suddenly, she stood and hobbled over to Bergmann, fists raised. “You did this. You. What do you want with us? Why do you destroy people’s lives and their homes?”
Bergman grabbed Anna’s wrists and tossed her into a corner. She landed in a heap, weeping, her hands covering her face.
Bergmann walked over to the bed and stared at the still figure, observing that the man had been deceased for at least a day, maybe more. The body was bloated, the skin mottled, but behind the scruffy beard and balding head, Bergmann thought he recognized Ferrand Boulier.
He instructed the sergeant to move the body to the morgue and set out to return to headquarters.
Villere stood at the entrance to the narrow passageway. “My reward?”
“He wasn’t arrested,” Bergmann snarled. “He’s dead. Show me the way out.”
Shaking, Villere complied, and Bergmann followed.
53
Bergmann shoved Villere into the dark passage, ignoring his faint surprise that the man he pushed was solidly built. “You were useless,” he barked impatiently.
Villere did not respond. They advanced into the alley illuminated only by the half-moon, which nevertheless gleamed off the brick walls on either side.
Behind them, a firefight erupted, darts of light from tracers piercing the night. Bergmann turned, alarmed. Suddenly, a strong hand jerked him backward by his shoulder. Spinning around, he saw that Villere had dropped his overcoat to the ground and straightened up, revealing a potent, shadowy figure advancing rapidly on him.
Villere grabbed Bergmann’s left shoulder with one hand and delivered two powerful right punches to his gut. Bergmann doubled over, air driven from his lungs, pain shooting through his upper torso and down into his groin.
“You kill defenseless people. Coward,” Villere hissed. “You beat up old women.” He let go of Bergman’s shoulder and pummeled the SS officer’s face with both hard fists. “Let’s see how you do against a fighter.”
Bergmann sprawled backward onto the ground. He rolled and scrambled to his feet, gasping for air, his mind grappling with this turn of events. He tasted blood trickling into his mouth and spat it out, his eyes fixed on this formidable, unknown opponent.
From the direction of the apartments, gunfire exploded. Bergmann turned his head slightly to listen. The guns fell silent.
A surge of adrenalin spawned from rage cleared the captain’s mind. He felt a return of strength. Crouching, he faced Villere and reached for his Walther P38. He fumbled a moment too long with the strap that held the pistol inside the holster.
Head low, Villere charged into Bergmann’s waist just as the weapon cleared the top of the leather. It fired wildly. The bullet buried in a wall with a loud smack. The pistol flew through the air, and then slid along the ground into a mound of debris.
Bergmann dropped his chest over Villere’s shoulders and brought his knee up into his attacker’s face.
Villere hung on, his arms around Bergmann’s waist, his legs and weight driving Bergmann back against a wall.
The German captain raised both fists over his head and brought them down hard into his foe’s back, above the kidneys.
Villere let go and fell to the ground, writhing.
Bergmann waded in, kicking the prone body.
Beneath him, Villere ignored the pain and, rolling over, caught the toe and heel of Bergmann’s boot in his hands and shoved.
Bergmann lost balance and fell backward. He rolled and lurched to his knees.
Slowed down by the pain in his back, Villere climbed upright, with one knee still on the ground, the other bent to push to his full height.
Bergmann rushed in to deliver a hard blow to the side of his adversary's head.
Villere saw it coming and ducked. Bergmann fell on him, and the two grappled and bashed each other.
From the end of the alley nearest the apartments, voices called out in French. Adrenaline once more surged through Bergmann, who scrambled to escape. He fought and kicked his way, distancing himself enough from Villere to get to his feet, and he fled down the dark alley into the night.
Breathing hard, Villere struggled to his feet, peering through the darkness after Bergmann. Hearing running footsteps behind him, he turned painfully and dropped his hands to his knees to regain his breath and support his upper body. His head drooped.
Feeling a hand on his shoulder, he looked up at Ferrand Boulier. Claude stood next to him. “Are you all right, Jeremy?”
Jeremy nodded without straightening up. “I’ll live. I think. Good to see you, Monsieur Boulier.” Slowly, he raised to full height and turned to hug Ferrand, taking in the old man’s scruffy appearance. “How’s Anna? She did an incredible job.”
“She’s scared, but she’s safe. She won’t be going back to work. Our family will take care of her.”
“What about your cousin?”
Ferrand took a kerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. “We were close,” he said mournfully. “We grew up together. People always said we looked like twins. I’ll miss him.” He sighed. “We’ll bury him with my name. He would be proud to make this contribution to the resistance. If questions come up, the medical examiner knows to have him identified as me.”
“And the SS men?”
“Some are dead. Some wounded. All incapacitated,” Ferrand said. “I’m sure their comrades will be along to pick them up.” He grunted. “We’re a fighting force now.”
“Not for long if we stay here,” Jeremy said. “Let’s go.”
54
The battalion executive officer waited inside Oberstleutnant Meier’s office when the commander arrived the next morning. He looked grim.
“We have a situation,” he said.
“I caught some rumblings on the way in,” Meier replied. “We had some shooting inside the ruins?”
The major nodded. “Hauptman Bergmann—”
At mention of the name, anger crossed Meier’s face. “What were the casualties?”
“Three dead. Six wounded.”
“Do we know who the attackers were?”
The executive officer
