The Escape - Robert Muchamore Page 0,16
over his head once the money ran out?
Marc stepped towards the larder cupboard. He opened the door and stared at the old salt tin with the director’s savings inside, as every question he asked himself spawned two more. He knew he’d never be able to answer all – or even most – of them. He realised there was only one question that really mattered:
Do I have the guts to run away, or am I all mouth like Lanier says I am?
Marc thought about fate. Perhaps god had left the bicycle and money as a temptation, to see if he would steal them. Or, maybe god wanted him to take the decision to leave? He decided to reach into the tin and pull out a single coin without looking. If it came up heads when he opened his palm he would leave. If it came up tails he would stay.
It seemed stupid, but it was the only plan Marc had. He dashed back to the door of the cottage for a final look to make sure nobody was coming. Then he unscrewed the tin and grabbed a coin blindly. He could hardly bear to open his fist.
Marc trembled as he released his fingers and saw the buckled two-cent piece with the face of Liberty staring at him. He reached into the tin and grabbed the rest of the director’s savings.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mr Clarke drove quickly with Rosie in the front and Paul in the back with the luggage piled around him. Concerned that the police were coming, or that another German agent might be waiting outside, they hadn’t wasted time packing the boot.
‘I owe the pair of you an apology,’ Clarke said, once they’d caught their breath and put a couple of kilometres between themselves and the apartment. ‘You never should have had to see that. If it was up to me you’d be safe and sound in England right now. Imperial Wireless offered to help pay your school fees after your mother died, but because she was French she never liked the idea of you two going to an English boarding school.’
Paul was in shock, and struggling to reconcile his father’s warm persona with his calculating behaviour back at the apartment. ‘So who was that German?’ he asked.
‘Abwehr – German secret service.’
‘But Mujard said the French police came too,’ Rosie noted.
‘No,’ Clarke said, shaking his head as the Citroën turned right into a cobbled alleyway. It was a poor neighbourhood and strands of washing hung from the apartment blocks on either side of them. ‘German agents have been operating in Paris for years, but since the invasion they’ve become quite brazen. They’ve taken to disguising themselves as police officers and their enemies have been disappearing, either shot or kidnapped and smuggled out for interrogation. Henderson reckons the French police are turning a blind eye.’
‘Why?’ Paul asked.
‘A lot of police officers have gone south. Those who’ve stayed behind hope to be working for the Germans in a few weeks’ time and have no intention of antagonising their future bosses.’
‘Who is this Henderson?’ Rosie asked. ‘A spy?’
Mr Clarke nodded. ‘He works for a branch of naval intelligence called the Espionage Research Unit. It’s a small department that specialises in unearthing enemy technology.’
‘And you work as a spy too?’
Clarke laughed at the thought. ‘I went on an intelligence corps training course back when I was in the navy, but it’s certainly not my day job. I first met Henderson about four years ago. As well as standard radios like we have in the apartment, Imperial Wireless makes specialist equipment like radios for military aircraft and ships, directional beacons, scrambler systems and such like.
‘I’ve been selling that equipment into France for seventeen years and over that time I’ve got to know everyone in the business – from the officers in the French naval procurement office, all the way down to the admin staff in our rivals’ sales offices.
‘Every few months Henderson and I meet for a drink. He’s always interested in the latest technical developments from our rivals and—’
Clarke had to stop speaking because he’d turned into a road that was blocked off by wooden barriers. They were less than a hundred metres away from a major railway station and the courtyard in front of it was jammed with people. But the steps leading inside were cordoned off and soldiers stood at wrought-iron gates with their guns poised.
A flat-capped policeman strode importantly towards the car as Mr Clarke wound down his window.
‘Do you have reservations