The Caves of Perigord_ A Novel - Martin Walker [87]
“He and François are old enemies?”
“He and François have never met. They just hate each other on principle. If they met, they’d start to argue. François calls himself a socialist—they hate the Reds more than anybody. They’d probably try to kill each other.”
“Does this Marat have access to a radio?”
Berger shrugged. “Not one of ours. He always dealt with your F Section, that special French section of SOE you used to deny having, the one that deals with Communists and others who oppose de Gaulle. I presume he got supplied by one of their networks in the north. You probably know more of this than I do.”
“So why does he want to meet me?”
“Because he wants more arms and explosives, to stockpile for his precious revolution. And you heard Hilaire back at the château. London wants the Communists supplied. But they are not using my drop zones nor my people. Anything you want to set up for them, you have to do it alone.”
“So why have you set up this meeting? If you wanted to keep me away from him, you just had to say the meeting place was unsafe.”
Berger eyed him steadily. “You don’t know much about the secret world, do you?”
“I suppose not.” Manners felt very small and rather lost, as if the war he had been fighting had taken place in some altogether different dimension. But he put his question again. “Why are you helping me to meet him?”
“First, Hilaire told me to do it, and I trust Hilaire. Second, if any arms are going to the Communists, at least I’ll know when, where, and who has them. Third, even if this Marat won’t use his supplies against the Germans, more and more of his people will know he has them and will want him to use them. Some of them are French first, Communists second.”
“This is a vipers’ nest you people have built for yourselves.”
“True, but we had some help from Hitler. And from Stalin.” Berger closed his eyes and grimaced. When he opened them his eyes were clear but curiously empty. “It’s time you met Stalin’s representative in this part of France.”
Marat was of average height, thin and balding, wearing round spectacles and smoking black tobacco in an old and much-charred wooden pipe. A beret and scarf and cloth shopping bag were on the battered table at which he sat reading a book as if he were just another local waiting for a train. He looked up as Berger steered Manners inside, and peered at the Englishman.
“Are you the one that helped pull the fireman from that train you blew up?” he began. Manners nodded.
Marat rose and shook him by the hand. A surprisingly strong grip. “Then I thank you for that in the name of the railway men’s union. And I congratulate you on a busy start. Le Buisson will be out of action for weeks. Your Winston Churchill should be pleased.” From the shopping bag, he pulled a dark bottle and three glasses.
Berger interrupted. “I’ll go outside and watch. You don’t need me for this conversation.”
“I think, for reasons of mutual confidence, it might be better if you stayed,” said Marat. He had an attractive voice, and spoke a precise, formal French. He might have been a railway worker, thought Manners, but he was a well-educated one. “I know we have some problems between our two organizations, but we only have one enemy. And the fact of these new arrivals from London means that we are getting ready for the invasion at last. Then we can start fighting Germans together, my dear Berger.”
“You haven’t done much about fighting them yet,” Berger said flatly. “And I don’t feel comfortable without someone on watch.”
“That’s already taken care of. My sentry has been watching you since you came down the hill.” He turned and rapped twice on the window. As Manners watched, a young and dark-haired woman in a shapeless gray overcoat slipped into view from the trees, with her hand inside the shoulder bag that hung at her side. Marat went to the door, and spoke to her