12. Angelique
October 1943
France
Christian,the tall, hazel-eyed SOE agent standing before the chair I am handcuffed to, appears to be quite pleased with himself.
He looks as if he belongs in the elegant hotel room. His clothes are clean and well tended to. Not a single bruise mars his near-perfect features. He is not a man who was tortured to reveal his secrets. Quite the opposite.
“When was it that we last met?” Christian asks in English. He smiles at me as though we are old acquaintances, but there’s something poisonous about the curve of his lips. “Right, I believe it was back in April. Oh, and before I forget, Allaire and élise send their regards.”
Oh, God.Poor sweet élise, my friend. She fell in love with Allaire, an English spy, the leader of the Cashmere network, and helped him because she wanted to save her country. For her, it was about love and duty. Two things Christian knows nothing about.
I glare at the man with the accent of an English aristocrat. Prior to the war, members of the upper class sided with the Nazis both in general principal and with their anti-Semitic views. The group of aristocrats tried to convince the British parliament to make peace with Hitler. They didn’t see the vile monster for what he is. They viewed him as a saviour, much like the Germans and Austrians still do.
I don’t doubt the lure of money and power were also instrumental to Christian’s actions. Money and power have divided France. Collaborators have willingly turned on friends and neighbours for money and prestige. Christian might be English, but he is nothing more than a traitor to both countries.
He continues staring, a patient smile on his face.
I glare at him with all the loathing that simmers beneath the surface.
The scowl on Krüger’s face is not that of a patient man. “She refuses to talk.” The words are spoken in English.
Christian walks leisurely to the window and peers out. “Carmen, things will go much easier for you if you cooperate.” He pivots to face me. “Is it all right if I call you Carmen? It suits you better than Angelique. That name suggests you are an angel, and we both know you are anything but that.”
He strides back to the desk and picks up the large stone paperweight. He examines it for a moment and returns it to the desk. “The Gestapo has arrested all the agents in the Cashmere network. Thanks to one of the agents who landed in France a few months ago, I secured the SOE’s list of all the agents, their aliases, code names, and where they were sent to work. The fool had it on his person when he came to France. Baker Street is slipping in its standards lately with their new recruits.”
Christian shakes his head as if that really is a shame. “Although given the life expectancy of an agent landing in France, at this point they can only recruit simpletons. No one else is ridiculous enough to agree to do the job.
“I can’t say I was too disappointed by the turn of events. But the list only contained the names of the agents in the Cashmere network, and you and I both know there are many more networks in France. You’ve been working with a satellite network as well as with several rebel groups.” He leans against the desk behind him and bends forwards, violating my personal space. “We want from you the names of everyone involved.” His foul breath assaults my face, his low voice confiding and cruel.
I stare at him, grappling at everything he’s telling me. He really believes I am the coward that he is? That I would sell out those who are fighting against Hitler?
“We also want the locations of the safe houses,” Krüger adds, his voice sharp and curt.
He knows? He knows my original role in the region? I was supposed to locate safe houses close to the parachute drop sites and landing zones. He would only know that if the list also contained the agents’ roles in France. But what Krüger and Christian don’t seem to realise is, my role in France changed once Johann moved into the farmhouse. Thank God they don’t know I’ve been harbouring escapees as well.
I remain silent, the tension in the air growing tauter with each passing second.
A muscle in Christian’s jaw twitches, signalling his patience is a fine wire about to snap. He steps up to my chair, his lean body looming over me. “You’re a pretty woman. I bet it is useful in getting what you want.” He tenderly traces the rough pad of his thumb along my jaw and presses it into my split lip.
A sharp pain radiates from the wound, and I wince, remembering a moment too late not to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s hurting me.
He smears the blood along my lower lip. “So pretty indeed,” he coos and lets his gaze drop to my breasts.
My stomach turns violent at the hunger in his eyes. I jerk my arms up to cover myself. The handcuff binding my wrist to the chair brings the movement up short.
Christian reverses a step. “You can undo her handcuffs.” He turns to the desk and picks up something. His body blocks whatever is in his hand.
The clanging of keys comes from behind me. The stocky Gestapo agent approaches my chair, and with a click, my other wrist is freed. I rub it, attempting to ease the discomfort.
“Will you tell me what I want to know?” Christian asks, his voice low as if sharing a secret, his tone pleasant like we’re old friends.
I don’t respond, my chin lifted in a stubborn tilt.
He grabs my wrist and yanks me to my feet. His other hand is kept behind his back. “I hope you don’t mind a little blood on your desk, Captain Krüger.”
Christian jerks me to the desk and puts my right hand flat on the cool dark wood. I attempt to pull my hand away. He’s not an imposing man, but he is stronger than I am.
Another set of hands holds on to my arms from behind, pinning me in place. Christian lifts his hand, revealing the stone paperweight in it.
I slip into my memory of Johann, but not fast enough. The paperweight slams down hard on my hand, and a blinding pain roars up my arm. I cry out.
When the Gestapo agent hurt the wound on my leg, I had been able to disappear into my mind and minimise the pain I felt. This time, I am not so lucky.My body is drained of all energy, weary from pain, and I’m unable to mentally separate myself from the world. The persistent thrumming in my head, the hurt of Christian’s betrayal, might have something to do with that too.
“The names and the locations, Carmen,” Christian barks, the feigned pleasantry leached from his tone.
Forty-eight hours. That’s how long my SOE instructors told me to hold out before saying anything if captured. Hopefully in that time, word would get out to the network that the agent had been arrested. Plans could be changed, keeping all those involved safe, preventing the Germans from converging on a mission. Allowing individuals to escape the region and avoid being caught.
Forty-eight hours. That’s how long I need to endure the torture in silence.
As best as I can estimate, it’s been only three hours.
I shake my head, no longer keeping up the pretence that I don’t speak English.
He lifts the paperweight and brings it down again and again and again, crushing delicate bones in my hand. The faint crunch of my bones and the pain in my hand has me close to vomiting on the desk. Nausea twists and churns in my belly.
“I won’t repeat it,” Christian says. “The names and locations. Now.”
I shake my head once more.
Forty to fifty more hours. I just have to survive that long.
He lifts the paperweight, but instead of hitting my hand, he strikes my temple. Hard.
And I spiral into a world of darkness.