“I don’t have time for this,” Petain growled.
“Sorry sir,” Lebeau continued. “The Colonel said something to the commander of a passing halftrack. The halftrack opened fire on Locard’s car.” He nodded toward the nearby debris. “Sprayed bullets all over the damn thing. A few seconds later the car blew up. Hell of an explosion, sir. Destroyed the Inspector’s car. Killed the Germans in and around the SS command car. What do you think they were carrying?”
“You don’t know who was with Locard? And you don’t know why the SS opened fire on them?”
“Correct, sir.”
“What do you know Lebeau?”
“Sir, there is one thing.” Lebeau took his hat off. “They pulled a body from the wreckage of the Inspector’s car. I’m pretty sure it was Locard.”
“And the other man in the car?”
Lebeau shrugged.
“We can hope he was blown to bits,” Petain said.
“Well sir.” Lebeau worked the brim of his hat through his hands. “I’ve seen a lot of explosions since the war began. German. Allied. Partisans. We always find some fragment of the deceased. An arm or a leg. Always something. I don’t know how it’s possible, but I think the third man escaped somehow.”
“You should probably leave the thinking-.” Petain cut himself off, realizing that Lebeau’s assessment was accurate. If the third man escaped, where did he go?
“Did you search the area?” Petain asked.
Lebeau nodded. “The SS did a pretty thorough search themselves. They questioned us, demanded to see our papers. I told them we were following up on information regarding Jews hiding in the area, showed them that list of names we’ve been carrying around, told him we arrested Bertrand on suspicion of harboring Jews. When they left, we searched again, didn’t find any evidence of him.”
Should I have my team search the area again? The men had climbed down out of the truck. They milled around the scene. He noticed a few men taking the time to stretch. Their lackadaisical movements irritated him and he considered throwing orders at them. He looked up at the sliver of a moon. It shed little light on the landscape. It would be a waste of time to send his men out into the woods in the dark.
He looked at the man seated on the ground. “Is this Ber-.” Lebeau suddenly pitched forward into Petain’s arms. He felt wetness on his face, tasted blood. Whirring filled the air around him, like nothing he had heard before. “Take cover!”
He watched as his men danced, arms flailing and bodies contorting. Ten seconds later, the sound ceased and his men lay still on the ground, twisted into odd poses. Wet blotches spread out over their clothing.
Something moved in the darkness behind him. He spun at the sound, drawing his sidearm as he turned. He emptied the pistol into the shadows, but the thing kept coming. Whatever it was, it wasn’t human. Louis Petain turned away from the thing, fled into the darkness.
A man appeared in front of him holding out a strange device.
“Get out of my way,” Petain growled as he kept running. Nothing is going to stop me from getting out of here.
The device lit up and a strange, yet painful burning sensation exploded in his chest. Every muscle throughout his body tightened. Then, he was falling. He tried to adjust his uncooperative feet, tried to throw his arms out to help with balance. He kept falling. Petain’s head collided with something solid on the ground and all at once the seizing stopped.
Once Petain was securely shackled, Hiram dragged him into the back seat of the Citroën. His training dictated that he do a thorough inspection and sanitization of the site, but his pounding head said otherwise. After dumping the bodies of the dead policemen into a pod, he slipped into the driver’s seat and put the car in gear.
Petain regained consciousness sometime later. The back of his head ached. Soreness radiated from his chest as if the entire front of his torso had survived a severe muscle cramp. He was in the backseat of a car that bumped along much too fast for his complaining head or the blackout conditions. He reached up to touch the aching place on his head. His hands moved no higher than his chest. He was shackled, hand and foot. After a moment, he noticed the man sitting next to him. He rustled the chains, testing their hold. The other man turned to him, eyes wide, terrified.
The driver glanced back over the seat. Petain jumped at the sight of the man’s monstrous face before he realized it was just a man in a mask and a pair of goggles.
“Who are you?” Petain asked.
The man in the goggles placed his right arm on the back of the front seat, a dull glow radiated from the man’s oversized watch. He spoke in what Petain guessed to be Hebrew. He had heard a rabbi speak in a similar tongue during the roundup as unheard prayers (or whatever the Jews called them) for the safety of his people poured out of him. Petain did not understand. He might as well have been talking in gibberish.
As the man’s words ended, a second voice◦– female◦– answered in French. “Hiram Halphen. I hear you’ve been searching for me these past few weeks. Now you’ve found me, Captain Petain.” The voice seemed to emanate from the mechanism on the man’s wrist.
“How are you doing that?” Petain’s curiosity outweighed his fear.
The man spoke in the Jewish tongue again.
“Magic,” the female voice said.
Petain figured it might not be healthy to push for further explanation. “Where are you taking me?”
“To the Jura Mountains. Prepare for a heartfelt reunion between Monsieur Bertrand and his loving wife,” Halphen said.
Bertrand whimpered.
“And to allow you to make the acquaintance of Maxime Bisset. You killed her little girl Solange yesterday. I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to see you both. I suspect you know both Rosette and Maxime have become quite handy with a multitude of weapons.”
If the man driving the car so recklessly was the mystery man Petain had been pursuing, then who did he have imprisoned on board the train? Was it his subordinate, or his superior? More information was needed. “I was following orders,” Petain said. “The Germans are running things in France these days.”
“Save it. I’ve seen Reichsführer Himmler’s order. The French police were only to arrest Jewish adults. Not children or mothers with young children. You killed a four-year-old girl because you’re a monster. Don’t blame your cruelty on orders.”
“A casualty of war. Look, I can help you, all of you,” Petain said.
“How can you possibly help me?” Halphen asked.
“The families on the train, my men hold their documents. I can get them released.” Halphen turned and looked at him for a moment, then returned his eyes to the road. “I’m Chief of Police for the Pyrénées-Orientales Department. Camp Joffre resides within my jurisdiction. I can have them returned to the camp, then released.”
The man appeared as though he considered the offer.
“Perhaps you could steal another ship,” Petain said.
45
0610 hours, Sunday, August 16, 1942, Corgoloin, Côte-d'Or Department, Vichy France
Hiram approached the railway station near the center of town in Corgoloin. The station agent inside had access to a telephone. Hiram, dressed in Alphonse Benoit’s oversized suit, followed Petain into the two-story plasterwork building that served as both ticket booth and newsstand.
The pain in Hiram’s ankle had crawled up to his knee and settled with such intensity that Hiram doubted he’d have been able to catch the captain if he decided to run. He had managed to sneak a few painkillers in on the trip to the train station. As he fought to keep his composure, he’d have sworn the little white pills were nothing more than candy.