The Escape - Robert Muchamore Page 0,65
night? You don’t want to get an infection.’
‘Three times,’ Marc said, nodding. ‘So is there a plan for today or are we winging it again?’
‘Bit of both, I expect,’ Henderson said, rubbing his eyes with his palms before stretching into a yawn. ‘I know where I’ve got to go, but I’m not a hundred per cent on the details. Have you eaten?’
‘Just some tinned stuff. There’s loads in the cupboard.’
‘I’ll eat something, then we’ll get going. Have you had any thoughts about your plans?’
Marc sounded surprised. ‘I’m sticking with you aren’t I? I mean … if that’s OK.’
‘I meant longer term. Assuming our message got to the retired priest before Herr Potente, I should be picking up Digby Clarke’s kids and catching the boat to England. You don’t have any documents, but I can probably pull some strings and get you on board too.’
Marc smiled. ‘Really?’
‘You were at my side when it counted in the hotel. I’m not sure what my superiors will say when I bring home a stray, but they’ve never liked me much anyway and once you’re on the boat they can hardly send you back.’
Marc was happy enough with this. Making friends and moving to Britain was more than he’d dared hope for when he ran away from the orphanage.
They’d pushed the motorbike into a canal the previous night and once he’d eaten, Henderson decided against wearing the Gestapo uniform. He’d been able to bluff his way past a teenaged soldier to get inside the telephone exchange, but he didn’t have the paperwork to make it through a security checkpoint in daylight.
Henderson abandoned his usual smart clothing and dressed like a peasant. He ended up looking like Marc, in working boots, corduroy trousers held up with braces, a white shirt and a broad-rimmed hat to keep the bright sun out of his face.
At first glance they were a father and son; peasants seeking refuge with relatives in the south. Unlike peasants though, Henderson had a silenced pistol in a holster strapped to his chest and his suitcase contained pills, poisons, two grenades and fifteen ingots of twenty-four carat gold. Marc walked with his pigskin bag over his back and a case filled with a light load of clothing and a few tins of food.
The pair walked through Paris’ southern suburbs at a brisk pace. It was tiring in the heat, but Marc didn’t mind because aching legs took his mind off the dull pain in his mouth. Every so often, they were passed by Germans in Kübelwagens or riding horseback, but the shock of the previous day had worn off and Paris was returning to an uneasy normality. It was a Saturday and children chased through the streets or stood in line at the cinema, while their mothers joined grimmer lines and waited for eggs, milk and bread.
It took an hour to reach the city limits, but the main road south towards Tours was blocked by a German checkpoint. A French car had been parked across one lane and its tyres sliced to stop it from being easily moved away. The open lane was guarded by six German troops who waved military traffic through while turning away civilian vehicles or anyone on foot.
‘Don’t stare at the checkpoint,’ Henderson said sharply, as he tugged Marc across the road and towards a small corner café. ‘It looks suspicious.’
Marc glanced around to make sure nobody was in earshot. ‘We could go cross country,’ he said quietly. ‘It looks pretty rural and surely they can’t guard every single field.’
‘That’s true,’ Henderson agreed. ‘But I want to get to Tours in a day or two at most. If we’re forced to walk it will take a lot longer than that.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘We watch and learn,’ Henderson said quietly, as they stepped between the lines of empty tables outside the café.
‘I have no bread,’ the owner said apologetically, the instant they stepped inside. ‘Just coffee and a few scraps I made into soup.’
Henderson was content with black coffee, while Marc asked for the soup and regretted it because it was made mostly with potato and bitter-tasting sausage that left a skin of grease on the surface. They lingered for an hour, saying very little but all the while keeping an eye on the traffic passing through the checkpoint.
The owner kept stepping out, looking forlornly down the street for his delivery of bread. Eventually he made a phone call and Henderson overheard the head baker telling him that the Germans had