The Escape - Robert Muchamore Page 0,63
put down the receiver.
‘No connection,’ she explained. ‘The Tours operator said that the number was for a Catholic college in the city centre and that there was a lot of bomb damage around there.’
Henderson shrugged. ‘Pity,’ he said. ‘I just hope we can rely on Father Fry.’
‘What now?’ Marc asked.
‘I’m exhausted,’ Henderson answered. ‘I need a night’s sleep, then I’ll set off for Tours in the morning.’
Marc looked unsettled. ‘You’re not going to abandon me are you?’
‘I suppose not,’ Henderson said uncertainly.
‘Have you got anywhere we can stay?’ Marc asked.
‘Not near here, but I have keys for the apartment where my assistant used to live. It’s a twenty-minute ride.’ Henderson turned towards the operator. ‘Thank you so much for your help.’
Marte smiled. ‘Rule Britannia,’ she whispered.
‘Vive la France,’ Henderson replied. Then he checked that the engineer was out of sight before kissing her on both cheeks.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The Government hadn’t surrendered, but giving up Paris without destroying tactically important bridges across the Seine showed that they’d abandoned any realistic hope of defending the rest of France. Soldiers were deserting or surrendering en masse and the roads south were lined with troops. Tired and hungry, they faced walks of hundreds of kilometres to get home.
Herr Potente passed thousands of these disarmed Frenchmen as he drove towards Tours in an Austin motorcar that had been commandeered and refuelled by the Gestapo. Unlike the civilian refugees the Clarke family had encountered a week earlier, the soldiers had no carts or prams to block the road and all but a few hopeless drunks stuck close to the kerb.
Craters, fallen brickwork and demolished bridges were Potente’s main concerns. Most required simple detours through villages or farm tracks but in places crossing a river meant diversions of up to thirty kilometres and nerve-wracking rides across bridges held in place by mounded rubble and hastily wedged railway sleepers.
Potente was immensely unhappy at the way his day had turned out. He worked for the Abwehr, a branch of German military intelligence that was engaged in a power struggle with the Gestapo. Potente considered himself a professional spy; while the Gestapo were agents of the Nazi party, and he thought them little better than organised thugs.
Being openly criticised by Oberst Hinze annoyed Potente. His team of six agents had operated in Paris since before the invasion and they’d successfully unearthed thirty British agents, killing eight and forcing the rest to flee ahead of the invasion.
At least Potente hoped to be out of France soon. The Russians were German allies, France would surrender soon and Potente could see no option for Britain other than to sign a peace treaty with Hitler. With luck, the war would be over soon and he planned to return to his family home near Hamburg and see out his remaining years in peace.
*
Potente reached Tours shortly after sun-up and stopped to eat croissants he’d brought from Paris and drink tepid coffee from a vacuum flask. He was tired from driving through the night and hoped the coffee would give him a kick-start to get through the day.
He anticipated no problems with picking up the plans and the children, but the call from Rosie Clarke seemed to have come at a remarkably convenient moment and, like any spy, he was always wary of a trap.
After eating, he opened his revolver to check that it was fully loaded before spinning the barrel and snapping it shut with a flick of the wrist. Potente was fond of this sound and couldn’t resist repeating the action several times.
He checked his map and guessed that Father Doran’s cottage would be a quarter-hour’s drive, but the petrol gauge was close to empty so he took a can and a funnel from the trunk and refuelled before setting off.
The Dorans’ cottage wasn’t dissimilar to the one Herr Potente had lived in as a boy. He felt a twinge of rural nostalgia as he pulled on a frayed cord to ring the bell above the front door. Yvette Doran wandered up the driveway from behind him, carrying a shovel and wearing boots covered in mud.
‘Mr Henderson?’ Yvette said uncertainly, before cracking a warm smile. ‘I didn’t expect you so early.’
Potente spoke in perfect French. ‘I made good time. The roads are surprisingly quiet.’
Yvette nodded. ‘I think everyone has been moving around France for so long that they’ve finally given up. Do step inside. The door isn’t locked and I expect my brother is dealing with the children’s breakfast.’
The door creaked as it opened directly