the man looming above him said soothingly. ‘Drink some of this.’
Marc propped himself on his elbow and spotted his bloody tooth on the boards in front of him. He grabbed an enamel cup from the man and quickly downed several mouthfuls of water. He felt groggy and the hole in his gum throbbed with pain.
‘Who are you?’ Marc asked, eyeing the stocky man with a scruffy beard.
‘The name’s Henderson,’ he said. ‘Charles Henderson.’
Marc felt a touch worried at this. He’d broken into the man’s house and pretty much helped himself to everything.
‘The Germans are looking for you,’ Marc croaked, as Henderson helped him to sit up. ‘There’s someone next door …’
Henderson drew a line across his throat and made a choking noise. ‘Not now there isn’t,’ he said, smiling. ‘So has my house been to your liking? You must have been here for a week now.’
Marc was surprised. ‘If you knew, why didn’t you turf me out?’
‘I’ve been busy,’ Henderson said, showing off a nice row of teeth when he smiled. He was a good-looking man, but he badly needed a shave and shampoo. ‘And your being here made it look like I’d skipped town.’
As Henderson said this, he pulled a hip flask out of his jacket and unscrewed the cap. ‘Whisky,’ he explained, as he handed it to Marc. ‘Rinse your mouth with it. You probably won’t like the taste, but it’s a natural disinfectant and the alcohol might help numb the pain.’
Marc’s eyes were blurred with tears and his hands were shaking. Henderson gave him a damp cloth to wipe his face.
‘The Germans who did this – did you overhear anything?’
‘All sorts.’ Marc nodded. ‘I’m not sure I remember all of it.’
‘Try your best. Start from the beginning.’
‘There was something about leave-behinds and Mannstein,’ Marc said. ‘My German isn’t exactly perfect. It seems so fast when they speak it.’
‘That’s OK,’ Henderson said softly. ‘I know you’re hurting, but please try and tell me as much as you can.’
Marc accidentally swallowed a sip of whisky and broke out in a coughing fit.
‘Don’t worry,’ Henderson said. ‘It doesn’t matter if you swallow a few drops. You’re in shock; it might even help calm you down.’
‘I don’t know what a leave-behind is, but they’re all compromised – or something,’ Marc said.
Henderson nodded. ‘Bad business.’
‘What are they?’ Marc asked.
‘Once British intelligence knew the Germans were going to take control of France, we started recruiting agents who’d stay and work behind enemy lines. We don’t know how – a double agent, torture or whatever – but the Germans got hold of the names and addresses of every British agent working in Europe, including mine.
‘The Nazis captured and killed more than two dozen agents when they invaded Belgium and Holland. Our people in France had time to escape, but our cupboard is now bare. As far as I’m aware, I’m the only operational agent left in France.’
‘Sounds bad,’ Marc said, nodding.
‘What about Mannstein?’ Henderson asked. ‘You said his name cropped up.’
‘They mentioned a hotel where he was staying. The Etalon, I think. And the Oberst – the head Gestapo guy – he said he was going there to commandeer the hotel.’
Henderson sounded excited. ‘The Oberst! Oberst Hinze was here?’
Marc shrugged. ‘They just called him Oberst.’
‘Tall guy,’ Henderson said. ‘Slicked back hair and a funny kind of lump on the side of his neck?’
‘That’s him exactly,’ Marc said. ‘He’s the bastard who ripped my tooth out.’
‘You’re lucky that’s all he did,’ Henderson said. ‘He’s a nasty piece of work. Mind you, you can say that about most of the men you see in a black uniform.’
‘Why black?’ Marc asked.
‘Green uniforms are worn by ordinary German soldiers. Most of them were called up to fight for Germany just like French and British boys were called up to fight for the allies. Black uniform is the SS. That’s the elite Nazi regiments, which includes the Gestapo. They’re fanatics. Hardcore Nazis who answer only to Hitler.’
‘He certainly strutted round here like he owned the place,’ Marc said.
‘And Mannstein is at the Hotel Etalon?’
‘That’s what they said.’
Henderson smiled. ‘That’s one of the most useful pieces of information I’ve heard all week. What else?’
‘There was a phone call as they were leaving. Some kids in Tours, trying to contact you.’
Henderson looked mystified. ‘I don’t know any kids.’
‘Potente pretended that he was you. They were talking about plans and he was going down south to meet them or something.’
‘Digby Clarke?’ Henderson asked.
Marc nodded. ‘Yeah, they mentioned that name. He’s dead apparently.