The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [120]
“Today was an important prisoner transport. But a Resistance bomb took out the bridge in front of the convoy. Fighters swarmed from the trees. Gunfire, more bombs. Quite chaotic, I understand. It was a major offensive for those criminals.”
“Oh?” Claire forced her hands to continue kneading the muscles of his neck.
“But, Claire, I am Nazi intelligence. And the escape attempt was not unexpected.”
Fear clawed at her stomach.
“I almost wish I could have seen the looks on their faces when our tanks rolled out of the forest behind them.” He laughed, shook his head in wonder at the imagined sight.
“So, what happened?”
“As you would expect. The criminals fought for their lives. Most were mowed down by our soldiers.”
“And the prisoners?”
He shrugged. “Most died chained in the trucks. An unfortunate result of the heavy fighting. A few managed to run into the forest.”
“And then what?”
“Our dogs made short work of them.” He emptied the glass. “My superiors are understandably pleased with the convenient execution of a number of notorious criminals in custody, as well as the destruction of a dangerous insurgency cell. It will make a fine news item in the papers tomorrow. With a list of the executed criminals, of course.”
Her fingers trembled. She pushed harder against his skin and forced her words around the expanding pain in her chest. “How exciting. Would I know their names?”
“Beauchamp. Murrell. Kinsel. The man called himself a patriot. Loyal to a dead world, sanctimonious fool.” He rolled his shoulders and let out a long, satisfied sigh. “And a British spy. Would have made it out, but for the dogs, I’m told. He was shot out of a tree. Grey was his name. Appropriate for a damn Englishman, isn’t it? Grey.”
The room dimmed around her. Von Richter kept talking. More names flowed by. Blackness pressed against her and crept into the edges of her vision. She rose like a specter.
“Where are you going?”
“I need a bath,” she said over her shoulder as she pulled the bathroom door shut behind her.
Claire turned the faucet then collapsed to her knees on the marble floor. She leaned against the tub, her face pressed against the cool porcelain. When the bath was full, she climbed in and sat. At the touch of water against her skin, she began to shake violently. Her breath came in small, quiet gasps and she felt her chest rip apart. She slid backward until her face was submerged. She lay under the water, her eyes shut as if she could stop time. The burning in her lungs grew.
She imagined Grey, the line of his jaw, his serious eyes. The smell of him next to her, their bodies melded together in a hollow of grass. Gunned down. As lights began to pop in her eyes, she choked and sat up. She dragged herself from the tub, reached for a towel and stood, dripping in front of the mirror.
“What are you doing in there?” von Richter said.
She stared at her reflection, transfixed. In spite of herself, wheels turned inside her head. Von Richter had expected something. The Resistance would think she had set them up.
In the end, her choice was simple, really. She toweled off and ran a comb through her hair. The door swung open and she stepped out, letting the towel drop to the floor. She picked up the phone, A bottle of your best scotch. Room 527.
She pushed von Richter back on the bed as she dropped the phone into the cradle. “Reach out, Sturmbannführer, and pick up your spoils.”
He pulled her against him.
Claire slipped from beneath the silk sheets and felt her way across the darkened room, heavy curtains drawn against the glimmer of early morning sun. She found her dress crumpled up on the floor by the foot of the bed, shook it out and slipped it over her head. Von Richter’s snores rumbling in the background, she crawled around the floor and found one then the other shoe. Climbing to her feet, she tiptoed into the study.
She pulled the door shut behind her, wincing at the click of the lock snapping into place. Von Richter’s drunken snores continued. Out cold.
In the faint predawn light,