The Escape - Robert Muchamore Page 0,57

men hostage on the top floor, to a fire, to a hoax played by a drunken officer.

‘Coming through,’ Henderson said, speaking his most pompous German and holding Marc firmly by the shoulder. ‘Urgent message from the Oberst.’

As Henderson approached the doors at the front of the lobby he pulled the pin from the grenade and dropped it into the earth beneath a potted palm. Marc had never been through a revolving door and looked perplexed, but it wasn’t the right moment to hang around and Henderson gave him an almighty shove before shuffling around inside the door. They stepped out into fresh air and a line of officers smoking and holding glasses of wine. It was almost nine and the sky was purple.

‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ Henderson said, as he pushed Marc through the line of officers. ‘I must escort this messenger.’

As soon as Henderson broke clear of the officers and started down the steps a German infantryman who looked no more than eighteen stood in front of Henderson, clicked his heels and gave a Nazi salute.

‘Heil Hitler. Do you require transport, sir?’

Henderson was counting in his head and knew that the grenade would explode within four seconds. ‘Something fast,’ he said, pointing towards a motorcycle with a sidecar. ‘Are the keys in the ignition?’

‘Yes, Herr Major,’ the infantryman said, nodding. ‘Fully fuelled and ready to—’

A white flash erupted from the front of the hotel, followed by a shower of glass and smoke that sent a dozen Gestapo officers toppling down the hotel’s front steps. Screams rang from inside as Henderson grabbed Marc and dragged him towards the motorbike.

Henderson felt a sharp pain where a splinter of glass had nicked his ear, but he had to ignore it as he straddled the bike and Marc vaulted into the sidecar. Henderson kicked the starter and he felt the engine vibrate between his legs, but he hardly heard a thing because his ears still rang from the blast.

‘When I stop, you run to the car and grab the bag from the trunk,’ he shouted.

Marc wasn’t sure what Henderson meant, but realised once he’d taken a sharp left out of the hotel driveway and another into the side street where he’d parked his battered Fiat. The boy had one leg out of the sidecar before they stopped at the kerb.

Henderson kept the motorbike running as Marc struggled to open the trunk.

‘Push the button and twist the handle,’ Henderson shouted, as a set of headlights turned into the alleyway behind them.

It only took Marc a few seconds to get into the back of the Fiat, but it felt like minutes. He grabbed Henderson’s briefcase – which contained gold and money – and his own pigskin bag and threw them into the sidecar before jumping on top of them.

Henderson realised that the Mercedes saloon behind them was driving too fast to be routine traffic. It was coming after them, with a brace of motorcycles for company.

‘Use your pistol,’ Henderson ordered. ‘See if you can fend some of them off.’

He pulled away from the kerb while Marc was still perched awkwardly on top of the briefcase.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Age had shrivelled Yvette Doran, but years of farm work had kept her fit and her movements were swift and precise. Each night she made Hugo and Paul share a tin bath and inspected them for cleanliness afterwards.

‘Nails,’ she said firmly, as the two boys stood in front of her wearing pyjama bottoms donated by a neighbour.

Hugo held out his hands and Yvette brushed her calloused thumb across the youngster’s soft skin. It had been many years since the old lady had looked after kids and the podgy softness of the six year old’s hands made her smile.

‘Not bad,’ she said fondly, as she kissed Hugo on the forehead. ‘And you combed your hair so it doesn’t tangle. Now show me those teeth.’

Hugo opened up proudly.

‘I’ll make a gentleman out of you yet,’ she said. ‘But you need to get around the back more with the toothbrush. Don’t just clean at the front.’

Hugo leaned forwards and gave Yvette a kiss on the cheek. ‘Goodnight,’ he said fondly, before bouncing up the wooden staircase on his bare feet.

Paul was five years older and the old lady took a quick glance at his nails and made him lean forwards to check behind his ears.

‘How come you don’t do this to Rosie?’ Paul asked.

Yvette laughed. ‘She’s almost a woman. I don’t trust you boys.’

At first Paul had found the inspection a little embarrassing, but