The Escape - Robert Muchamore Page 0,47

page aglow with his father’s handwriting. Names, phone numbers, dates, times and places of meetings. However, no mention of Henderson.

Over the next few pages Paul discovered more notes glowing under the blue light, but none of them seemed to relate to Henderson and he grew increasingly nervous as he got close to the end of the book.

Finally, just a few pages from the end, he found a quickly scrawled note: Henderson C. home 34451 Embassy 34200. Paul felt a rush of excitement as he burst out from under the bedcovers and grabbed something to write down the numbers on before he forgot them.

Once they were safely transcribed, he bolted downstairs and waved the piece of paper under Rosie’s nose as she dried a roasting tin with a dish cloth.

‘Are you joking?’ Rosie grinned as she wrapped her wet hands around her brother’s back and gave him a hug. ‘How did you find that? I’ll ask Father Doran where the nearest phone is. We can call him straight away.’

‘Father Doran,’ Paul shouted, as he ran out of the kitchen and into the living room. ‘We’ve got a number for Mr Henderson.’

The elderly priest had cleared the dining table and set out playing cards and wine glasses for his friends.

‘You have?’ he smiled.

‘I found a torch,’ Paul explained. ‘It shows up the hidden writing in my dad’s pocket book.’

‘Ahhh,’ the priest said, wagging his finger knowingly. ‘Ultra-violet light. I believe the Vatican used a similar technique for passing messages during the Great War. Well, that’s marvellous – assuming that this Henderson is still in Paris.’

‘And that the phone lines are working,’ Rosie added. ‘Paris is behind German lines now. I’ve got no idea whether we’ll be able to get through. We need a phone, Father. Do you know anyone around here who has one?’

‘I’ve never used one myself,’ the priest said. ‘But there’s a vineyard about three kilometres down towards the village. The owner is a widow I’ve known for many years. I’m sure she’ll let you use her phone, if it’s working.’

‘Great,’ Paul said. ‘We’ll head up there now.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

‘Got him,’ the junior officer announced triumphantly, as he dragged Marc from behind the chair. Before the boy knew it he’d been shoved backwards into the armchair and the Oberst loomed over him.

‘What is your name?’ the black-uniformed Oberst shouted, switching to French that was about as competent as Marc’s German.

‘David Henri,’ Marc lied.

‘Do you speak German?’

Marc nodded. ‘A little bit.’

‘If you understood our conversation, you’ll know what I want to hear.’

Marc shook his head meekly. ‘All I know is that Henderson lives here, sir. I don’t know him. I’ve never even seen him.’

‘Then why are you here?’

‘I came from the north,’ Marc explained. ‘I came here to shelter.’

‘All the doors and windows are intact,’ the German said. Then he turned towards one of his junior officers. ‘I don’t believe him. Fetch my bag from the car.’

‘I swear it’s true, sir. I pulled out the bathroom window. There’s still a hole, and you can go and look if you don’t believe me.’

Without warning, the Gestapo officer grabbed Marc out of the chair and smacked him hard across the face. ‘I don’t believe you. And you will address me as Herr Oberst, is that clear?’

The blow left Marc in a daze, with blood welling in his nostril. He was slow to respond and the Oberst dragged him across the room and knocked the side of his head against the wall.

‘I understand, Herr Oberst,’ Marc said, seeing stars and fighting tears as the blood dribbled over his top lip.

‘Who is Henderson? Where is Henderson?’ the Oberst shouted, as he jabbed two fingers into Marc’s stomach.

‘I swear I don’t know.’

The Oberst looked at one of the junior officers. ‘Check the bathroom window, then search the house for his things.’

The officer clicked his heels and headed out as his colleague returned with a leather doctor’s bag. The bag jangled as the officer placed it on a tabletop.

‘Pliers,’ the Oberst ordered. ‘Then hold the boy around the neck.’

Marc could hardly stand after the beating and put up no fight as the junior officer stood close behind him and wrapped an arm around his neck.

‘This is your last chance to tell me about Henderson,’ the Oberst warned, as he rested the cold pliers against the squashy tip of Marc’s nose.

Marc considered inventing something to satisfy the Oberst, but he knew a lie would only lead him into deeper trouble and his head was too fuzzy to come up