“Have you had her husband brought in for questioning?”
“No Captain. If this man is involved, we might collect better results if we keep an eye on him for a while. The missing prisoners may show up. Perhaps he’ll take us to them.”
“You may have a point. Do you have anything else to report?”
“Nineteen days ago, a hunter from Vingrau disappeared in the woods northeast of town. His wife claims he is an experienced woodsman.”
“And I’m just hearing of this now?” Petain slammed his fist on the desk.
“The hunter◦– Boudreaux◦– was reported missing by his family this morning,” Locard said.
“Does Boudreaux match the description of the mysterious soldier?”
Locard considered the question. “No, sir, not at all. I’d like to send an armed patrol into that area. Perhaps our maids and their accomplice are hiding out in the vicinity.”
“See to it. What about the missing guard from Camp Joffre? Any indication he was involved in the escape?”
“No reason to believe he had any involvement at this time. On the day he disappeared, guards performing a routine perimeter sweep found a recently repaired hole in the fence. The work was precise and intricate. I’m surprised the guard noticed. They neglected to report it since all of the prisoners were accounted for. But the location of the repair lined up with the direction where Boudreaux went missing.”
“Well, I don’t believe in coincidence. Get a patrol out tonight.”
“In the dark?” Locard seemed surprised at the notion.
“It’s cold in the mountains at night. Those women are frail and probably very hungry. They’ll have a fire to keep warm and cook whatever food they’ve found. Fires are easier to spot at night,” Petain said. “Now get out of my sight. You’ve got work to do.”
Locard turned and left without another word. Petain’s irritation compounded. Seven policemen dead and one missing. Eighteen shore battery sailors dead. Two civilians dead. And now another missing civilian. Six heavy guns destroyed. One ship with a full crew hijacked right from under the Navy’s nose. The mystery soldier certainly was resourceful. Petain opened the drawer and pulled out the finned bullet. And if I can get my hands on him and his weapons, I just might be able to repair the damage this whole affair has done to my career.
0550 hours, Friday, July 31, 1942, West of Vingrau, Pyrénées-Orientales Department, Vichy France
Locard’s patrol, which had been dispatched on Wednesday evening and searched for a day and a half, claimed to have discovered something of substance. Once again Louis Petain found himself in the damn woods accompanied by Lebeau, this time a half-hour before sunrise. At least it wasn’t muddy, the result of a hot and dry week.
“Bonjour, Captain.” Locard spoke with a distasteful amount of cheer for such an early hour.
“Bonjour,” Petain said. “You got me out here. Now, tell me what you found.”
“It appears to be an abandoned campsite for a few dozen people,” Locard said. He motioned for Petain to follow him as he headed deeper into the woods. “I’m guessing either it is the missing prisoners or another group of Spanish refugees. None of the usual trash the Spaniards tend to leave behind though.”
Petain looked around the site, paying particular attention to small tread impressions that weaved through a few of the trees. The tracks sank deep into the soil, left behind before the ground dried.
“The tracks bare similar characteristics to those found near the ambush site two weeks ago. I’ll verify my observations when I get back to my office,” Locard said.
“And where are our squatters now?” Petain said.
“Tracks lead away from the site in every direction. No way to determine where the prisoners headed. I sent for hounds about an hour ago.”
Petain and Locard turned to the sound of several braying dogs approaching the former campsite.
“Ah, here they are now,” Locard said.
“Send the hounds out in every direction. Call in more if these mutts fail.” Now we’re getting somewhere. The prisoners and their Jew-loving pig must not escape again.
“By the way, I heard from my contact at Drancy,” Locard said as they watched the hounds sniffing around the campsite. “The Jews sent there from Camp Joffre will be relocated to a labor camp somewhere in Poland around the middle of next week. If we want to question them again, we’ll have to do it soon.”
“Any reason to believe they’ll provide any additional useful information?”
“No, sir. I think I got about as much information from them as we’re going to get.”
“Very well, have them keep my office informed of their deportation schedule. Soon enough they’ll be out of our hair.”
An unfamiliar whump silenced the braying of the hounds. The air grew still and behind them a man screamed. His scream ended as suddenly as it had started.
“What the hell was that?” Petain said. He ducked, certain the mystery soldier planned to send a finned bullet through his chest.
“Look!” Locard pointed up the gentle slope of the hillside. Petain stood and stepped around Locard for a better look. Erupting out of a thick stand of pine trees, a ball of fire expanded quickly in the dry forest. The fire engulfed the pine trees in seconds, and, propelled by a considerable breeze, descended towards their position. His men were in danger.
“Run!” Petain yelled.
Locard moved fast. Petain followed. They headed north across the line of the fire rather than directly away from it.
“Do you know where you’re going?” Petain gasped between breaths. His chest burned. The smoke grew thicker by the second.
“A wide stream about three hundred meters north,” Locard yelled. “Our best chance is to get across it.”
Petain didn’t argue. Five minutes later they splashed across the stream and collapsed on the far bank. Other men joined them, all breathing heavily as they made their way to the shore.
“Booby trap,” Lieutenant Lebeau said when he joined them. “I sent one of the men to check out that stand of trees. Then the whole thing erupted in fire. I don’t think he made it out.”
Petain coughed, trying to clear the building irritation in his lungs. “I’m inclined to agree with you, Lebeau,” Any indication that his missing maids spent time at this campsite had been erased, along with any evidence that might lead to the next one. “Anyone else missing?”
“Not sure, sir. About half our men are here, and the other half headed back to the road. The fire seems to be burning itself out. A couple of the dogs outran the handler. He’s sure they’ll turn up.”
“They aren’t much use now anyway,” Locard said. “All the scents will be gone.”
14
1400 hours, Friday, July 31, 1942, Catalonia, Francoist Spain
“Hell of an ambush location,” Hiram said as he took up a position next to Sarah.
“You can thank Maxime for the view,” Sarah said.
Stretched out below them lay the Figures-Perpignan Highway, running north to the French border and south towards the Costa Brava. The highway was carved into the steep mountainside, with a sheer drop on the far side of the road and a hard climb up to his position, accessible via a well-hidden path one hundred meters east of the road. Hiram’s vantage point provided a clear view of an easy target. Two hundred meters to the north, a team of Spanish Maquis waited to destroy the goods in an approaching convoy, unaware that Hiram and Team Two were about to pre-empt the ambush with one of their own. Up until this morning, Hiram wasn’t even sure they would have the weaponry needed to accomplish the feat.