“Do it,” Hiram said. Charlotte directed the drone to descend to just above the tree tops where it circled, waiting for its quarry. Deborah and Danette lingered at the edge of the clearing, weapons high. As they stepped out into the open area, Charlotte sent the little pilot-less aircraft into a tight, low orbit around the clearing. Charlotte, Hiram, and Trembley watched Danette lock onto the little plane with her rifle as the drone passed. Two more passes and she jumped up and down, waving and pointing at the drone. Soon Deborah joined her. Charlotte settled the drone into a hovering position and zoomed in on both of them as Hiram fought back tears.
“She has one more thing to tell you,” Trembley said.
“What?” he asked, irritated at the need to have Trembley translate in Deborah’s place.
“Team Delta reports that the German 15th Infantry Division near Moulins is packing up to move. They don’t know where yet,” Trembley said, his translation slow as he took in Charlotte’s words.
Before Hiram could respond, Trembley said, “That could be good news, or bad news. Can we see the view from their drone?”
Hiram removed his C2ID2 display from the pouch on his body armor and handed it to Trembley. “Tell Charlotte what you want to see. Since Inspector Locard and Colonel Oster speak English, I won’t need you to translate. See if you can figure out where that division is going.”
“Charlotte, the minute you hear from Foxtrot or Golf, give them Deborah and Danette’s coordinates.” Hiram paused, to clear his throat. “Tell them I would be most appreciative if they would send a team to fetch them.”
37
0930 hours, Friday, August 14, 1942, Perpignan, Pyrénées-Orientales Department, Vichy France
Captain Petain replaced the Ericsson Bakelite telephone handset in its cradle and made a note in the case file spread out before him on his large desk. Yet another delay. He thought he’d succeeded in scheduling a train to take the troublesome Jews out of Frontstalag 194 in Vittel and off to wherever the Germans deported them in the East, not an easy task. Rail transit across the German-French border remained restricted by the event in Saarbrücken and the subsequent response by the German and Vichy governments. But he’d found a French National Railway Company dispatcher willing to route the train northward through Belgium.
Now the dispatcher had called to report a delay. Two bridges over the Loire were gone, blown up by partisans, and the train had to be rescheduled. On top of that headache, ration deliveries to the German soldiers took precedence over his requests. Sometime tomorrow the train would leave, along with the last remaining ties to the missing prisoners and the evidence that his men had failed in their duties. Petain had called in numerous favors to get the women’s families on the first outbound train from Drancy after their arrival. Had the event in Saarbrücken taken place an hour later, the train would have reached Germany and been out of France for good. A half an hour later and the explosion might have destroyed the train. He would have enjoyed watching that fireworks display. Instead, his prisoners had been sent to a fucking resort in the Vosges Mountains.
The idea that the mysterious man, who had created such a headache, had caused the event in Saarbrücken crossed his mind. He had used advanced weaponry to take out Petain’s men, but he found it hard to believe one man could have taken an entire city down to the ground. Surely an industrial nation-state developed the thing that destroyed Saarbrücken. Most likely the Americans.
“Sir, you have a call from Lieutenant Lebeau,” Rubi called from her desk outside his office.
He snatched the phone. “Lebeau, what have you found?”
“One of the missing maids, sir. Inspector Locard picked up the Bertrand woman’s son from Camp des Milles. Then, he drove to Lyon where he picked up a man at the train station.”
“Who?” Petain interrupted.
“We haven’t established that,” Lebeau said. “He’s German. Came all the way from Berlin according to another passenger I interviewed.”
Petain guessed this new player must be important to have secured passage by train, given the current state of the rail system. “Where did they go?”
“We followed them to a farm outside Saint Chamond, in Loire Department. We did a quick drive past the farm. Don’t think we were detected. We saw two heavily armed women emerge from the fields around the farmhouse. They took Locard and the other man inside. One of the women took the boy into her arms. She had to be Rosette Bertrand. I assume the other women are some of the remaining prisoners from the convoy attack we’ve been seeking.”
“Keep an eye on them,” Petain said.
“Officer Thibult is watching from the bell tower of a church in Saint Chamond. I’m at the local police station a few blocks away. We’ll monitor the situation.”
“Thibult’s an imbecile. Tell me you have another officer with you!”
“Just Thibult and myself, sir.”
“Notify me immediately if the situation changes. I’m on my way.” Petain hung up the phone. Time to go hunting.
Petain compared the two maps spread out on the table in his outer office. On the left, was a roadmap of France, marked with existing checkpoints. He expected the four-hundred-kilometer road trip from Perpignan to Saint Chamond to take at least six hours, longer if he avoided the checkpoints. He wanted no official notice of this expedition to reach Vichy, given the risk that someone might connect the dots between the missing female prisoners, the attack on the cargo vessel M.V. Calais at Port Leucate, and the event in Saarbrücken.
On his right, was a map of the French railway system with the route from Camp Vittel to the Belgian border crossing marked in red. The circuitous train route passed within one hundred kilometers of the farmhouse Lebeau and Thibult watched.
He considered how long it would take to move his men to Saint Chamond. A better option appeared before him as he looked at the rail map.
“Rubi,” Petain called. “Did Inspector Locard have access to the schedule and route of the train from Frontstalag 194?”
The assistant hurried into his office. “Yes sir. I saw him checking it before he left Thursday morning. But,” she paused, “he wouldn’t know about the latest delay. Should I try to reach him?”
“No thank you, my dear.” If Locard knows, so must his co-conspirators. And if my evaluation of this mysterious soldier is correct, he can’t resist rescuing a train full of Jewish prisoners. I can use the train as bait!
He would load some of the railcars with armed policemen disguised as prisoners, enough to overwhelm the soldier and his Jew whores. If the soldier didn’t bite, Petain’s men could disembark in Mâcon and proceed to Saint Chamond by truck.
Petain rolled up the maps and headed out into the open police station. Twelve of his men rose as he entered the room, waiting for the afternoon’s assignments. A few more and he’d have enough to mount his attack.
“Rubi, get second shift in here. Tell them we’ve got a situation.”
“Sir?”
“And tell them to forget the uniforms.”
“Um, yes sir.” The assistant picked up her phone and began dialing.
38
1159 hours, Friday, August 14, 1942, Saint Chamond, Loire Department, Vichy France
Although Hiram was relieved to learn Deborah and Danette remained unharmed, he still faced the problem of rescuing the families, along with the other prisoners. The route for the Holocaust Train Inspector Locard provided passed within a hundred kilometers of their current position. Even if stopping the train and freeing hundreds of prisoners went as expected, moving that many people through occupied France would be impossible.