Mark

Another week passed before MacDougal relented and allowed Mark to leave their hidey-hole. A week spent playing cards, and listening to Francois rant about the Nazis when he deigned to return. He had worked himself into a froth on his most recent visit; it seemed the Germans were art lovers.

“That monster Göring was back at the Jeu de Paume yesterday,” the Frenchman spat, pacing around the cramped living room. He knocked into Mark’s knee as he spun around, taking no notice of the glare that the younger man tossed his way. “Picking out paintings like a housewife picking out vegetables. You know what they have done?”

“What have they done, Francois?” Wight didn’t look up from oiling his rifle, and there was nothing in his tone to suggest he cared.

“They have stamped a great black swastika on the back of every painting.” He hissed, holding up his hands to show just how large the mark was. “Marking them like a dog marks a tree. They say he will send them to his hunting lodge.”

“Do you know when and how?” MacDougal asked, looking up from his bowl of soup. It was the last of their food, and poor at that. Rutabaga, with a little barley and a handful of beans, boiled to mush. Francois refused to touch it, since he could find better when he went out, and the rest of them gagged it down only because it was preferable to going hungry. All except for the Sergeant; he shoveled it down with the stolid impassivity of an old campaigner. To him, it was just fuel, no matter how bad it tasted.

Francois stopped his pacing and turned to MacDougal, his eyes alight. “In a day or two, by train. Will you try to recapture them?”

“What? No.” MacDougal snorted into his soup. “Too much risk. But if Göring himself is going to be on it, we might try to blow it up.”

Francois stared at MacDougal, aghast. “In that case, I have no idea which train they might be on.”

“Fair enough.” The Sergeant lifted the bowl to his lips and slurped the last of the soup up. When he set it back down, he grimaced at the dregs. “It seems that we’re due for a supply run. Johnson, go with Francois and see what you can find.”

“Send someone else.” Francois said, with a flippant wave of his hand. “I am not your grocery boy.”

MacDougal’s scowled, but all he said was, “Fine. Johnson, take Mark instead.”

And just like that, Mark was free again. Or at least, free to do some grocery shopping. He and Johnson wound their way through the dank alleyways to streets alive with people. He took a deep breath, filling his nose with the smells of Paris.

He wrinkled his nose. Lots of horse manure in Paris. Of course, that wasn’t Paris’ fault. There was also the smell of morning bread baking. But it seemed to Mark that there was a lot more of the former and very little of the latter. Not enough wheat to go around. Not enough of anything to go around, really.

Under the German military and their handpicked French officials, French industry and agriculture served the Nazi war machine first and the people of France second, if at all. The new and inaptly named Ministry of Agriculture and Supply had installed a rationing system mere weeks after its conception. Bread, fat, flour, rice and sugar had been the first items targeted. Then butter and cheese, meat, coffee, eggs and oil. Last month chocolate, fish, vegetables, and even wine had been added to the list. Under other circumstances, Mark imagined the Parisians might have rioted at that last inclusion, but for now they had more pressing concerns.

“Head down.” Johnson muttered to him. “Slouch some more, there’s a patrol there.”

Mark spotted them, a trio of uniformed men watching the Parisians with narrowed, suspicious eyes. Johnson led them away from the Germans, winding around a queue for bread and out of their sight.

“Lot of them out today.” Mark whispered, and Johnson nodded, glancing around to make sure they hadn’t been noticed.

“They’ve been very busy this last week or so.” He said, frowning. “Ever since our strike. Just stick to the crowds.”

That was easy enough. Long lines stretched in front of the grocers they passed. Men and women jostled for position, clutching at ration tickets. They needed the tickets to buy most food worth buying, if it could be found for sale. Often it couldn’t be had for any price, tickets or no, so ersatz substitutes were commonplace. Leather was needed for soldier’s boots, so the clatter of wooden soled shoes echoed through the streets. Half the bread in the city was baked with potatoes instead of flour, and the only coffee available was a foul concoction of toasted barley and chicory.

Johnson did not join any of the lines, forging through them instead. They didn’t have ration tickets, so the stores couldn’t sell them anything. Trying would only draw unwanted attention. What they did have was cash, enough to pay someone willing to bend the rules, though their reserves dwindled with each passing day. So instead of going to the stores, they headed to a bar.

Les Guêpes’ brick face slumped over a faded green awning, supported by two tall tenement buildings on either side, like a drunk man being borne home by his more temperate companions. Dirty windows allowed a dim view of the interior, packed with men milling about even at this early hour. The bar’s enterprising owner had taken to opening for breakfast to stretch the time the Nazi curfew allowed him. As they pushed through the doors, the smell of barley coffee and sour beer rolled over them, mingled with the chatter of the patrons. A radio stood in the corner, adding its tinny voice to the tumult. The broadcaster built to a fever pitch, railing against Churchill and the United Kingdom.

“…because I continue to think that England, like Carthage, must be destroyed! This is Jean Hérold-Paquis, with Radio Paris. On the northern front, fighting continues…”

That might have been worrisome, but no one seemed to be paying the broadcast any mind. They knew it was propaganda, and they loathed it, but they kept it on for appearances sake. One man, deep in his cups despite the hour, stood to turn and sing back at the radio.

“Radio Paris ment, Radio Paris ment, Radio Paris est allemand!” Radio Paris lies, Radio Paris lies, Radio Paris is German! The performance drew a smatter of tired laughter, as though those present had heard the joke too often for it to be funny.

“Was that to the tune of ‘La Cucaracha?’” Mark muttered to Johnson.

“I think so.” He answered, bemused. “Here we are. Hand me the list.”

Here was a booth, tucked into the deepest corner of the establishment. Two men occupied it, though one stood to depart as they approached. He brushed past them without a second glance, eyes down, eager not to recognize them or be recognized in turn.

The remaining man’s eyes lit with pleasure when he saw Johnson. He was stout, thick shouldered and broad faced, with a thin graying mustache beneath a long beak of a nose. He gestured for them to sit. “Ah, Johnson! Welcome, my friend. Can I offer you anything?”

Johnson grinned back at the man, reaching across the table to shake his hand as they sat. “Good to see you Phillipe. How’s business?” He said, slipping into French.

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“Good, good!” He waved for them to take a seat. “The ration cards grow thinner every month, yes? And so the good people of France must look…elsewhere.” He spread his hands with an apologetic smile, as though he regretted filling that role. “And who is your young friend?”

Johnson chuckled at that. “This is Mark, and I’m sure they do. Here, we need a few things ourselves.” He pushed the list across the table.

Phillipe poured them each a cup of the coffee before taking up the list to read it. Mark took a sip and raised an eyebrow.

“Real coffee? That’s quite generous of you.”

Phillipe’s eyes twinkled. “Only the best for my best customers. It helps if you feel like you owe me.” He put the list down and turned back to Johnson. “I can get you everything here, but prices have gone up. It will be five thousand francs for what you have written here.”

Mark snorted. “For that much we could eat at a restaurant every day.”

Johnson nodded his agreement. “Nice try, you old pirate. You’ll get two.”

“My friends!” Phillipe put a theatrical, wounded note into his voice. “Would I cheat you? Did you know, the Reich has pegged the value of the franc against the Reichsmark? Twenty to one where ten would be more reasonable, and they tax us in Reichsmarks. I could go as low as four and a half, perhaps, but my own take will be pitiful.”

“You don’t even pay taxes. Two and a half.”

“Ah, but the farmers do! And they lose money every time they do business with the Germans. Have a heart. Four is surely the lowest I can go.”

“I haggle poorly with my heart. I suppose we’ll have to go to Veillon.” Johnson shrugged.

The twinkle in Phillipe’s eye turned to a glitter as he leaned forward across the table. “Veillon will not be able to get you half of what you have listed here. And you get what you pay for.” The emphasis on ‘get’ set the hair on the back of Mark’s neck on edge. “Questions have been asked recently, and I tell you that for free. Veillon or another might give you most of this for three thousand, but his…service, shall we say…is not so fine as mine. Nor so private”

Mark locked eyes with the man, who settled back and sipped from his coffee with perfect calm. He had the vague feeling that they were being threatened. Johnson pursed his lips, frowning across the table at the man.

They stayed that way for a long moment, Phillipe meeting both their gazes in turn, before speaking again, his voice soft. “Something big is afoot, my friends. The gestapo are more active, the patrols have increased. The rumors say they are planning something.” He lapsed back into meaningful silence.

Finally, Johnson shrugged and removed an envelope from his inner coat pocket. “And with higher risk, comes higher prices. Four thousand, then.” He set the bills on the table, but kept one finger on them. As Phillipe reached out to take them, Johnson drew them back. “On delivery.”

Phillipe burst into laughter. “Impossible! But I will take half now and half once the delivery is made. You have become suspicious!” Johnson split the stack in two and handed half over to Phillipe, tucking the rest away. Phillipe made his own portion vanish up a sleeve. “You’ll have it by week’s end. Is there anything else I can do for you, good sirs?”

Johnson rose, shaking his head. “No, but thank you. For both the warning and business.” He clasped the other man’s hand, but some of the earlier warmth in his voice was missing.

Mark shook the man’s hand as well; it was smooth and clammy, warm only where he’d held his cup of coffee. A soft hand, uncalloused by real work. Mark wiped his palm on his pants when they were out of his sight.

“I didn’t much care for him.” He muttered to Johnson as the door of the bar swung shut behind them, dampening the chatter.

“No?” Johnson’s eyes crinkled in a smile, where the scars allowed it. It did a great deal to soften the severity of his features. “Well, I can’t blame you for that. The man is a cheat and a rogue at best, a criminal and war profiteer at worst. But he did tell us something very useful.” The smile faded, replaced by a grim look that was much more at home among the scars.

“That Veillon would turn us in?” Mark shook his head. “I don’t believe it. He was just trying to scare us; in fact, I can’t believe you paid him four thousand.”

“Oh, Vellion might or might not. A reputation for discretion is important, after all…but I’d say it’s a certainty that people are asking questions.” Johnson paused at the turn onto the street that would take them back to Francois’ house, then continued straight instead. Close on his heels, Mark saw another patrol at the end of the avenue. “The gestapo would pay prettily for us, have no doubt about that. No, four is a little more than I wanted to pay but it will be worth it; so long as selling to us is more profitable than selling us out, we’ll be safe.”

Mark stared at him. “That feels like a rather flimsy shield.”

“It is,” Johnson agreed mildly. “But a paper shield is better than none. And we should have the local resistance’s attention now. With luck, we’ll be in contact with this Fleur de Lis fellow in the next week or so, and that will help move us deeper undercover.”

“If Francois can even find him,” Mark grumbled.

“He will; or the Fleur de Lis cell will find us. But for the nonce, we must be as discreet as we can.” He turned again, pointing them back towards the hideout.

Mark groaned. “How are we supposed to be discrete and convince the Fleur de Lis that we can be trusted at the same time?”

Johnson shrugged. “Leave that to MacDougal.” He stopped again, squinting up the road at a group of soldiers, and then turned onto a side street. “Another batch up there.” He grumbled to himself, tugging his hat down further over his eyes. “Damn, but they are thick today.” To Mark, he went on. “You know, I often think we’re going about this all wrong.”

Mark looked at him sharply. “How so? Do you think we need to blow up something even bigger?” He tried to imagine a target both more valuable and larger than the electrical substation. “We could start blowing up trains like Francois mentioned, I suppose...”

“We could, but if we wanted to wreck trains it would be easier just to remove some of the bolts from the tracks.” His eyes took on a distant look, and a small smile curled his lips. “You could detach a connector plate…maybe on a sharp turn on the downhill side of a mountain.”

Mark grinned. “It would scatter the whole load all the way down the mountainside. Nice.” Not as nice as a big explosion, but elegant in its way. “But that’d have to happen way outside of town.”

“It would,” he admitted as they turned into the alleyway that led back to the safe house. “No, what we need to do is hit production.”

“I thought that’s what we did when we blew up the power station.” Mark stepped over a beggar’s filthy pile of rags. The beggar was not in residence. The whole alley is empty, he mused. They’ve all gone to try their luck in more profitable neighborhoods. That was all to the good, as far as he was concerned. The fewer people who saw them coming and going, the safer they’d be.

Johnson frowned at the vacant nests as he made his way around them, but did not comment on the absences. “It was, but what we really need to do is recruit the people the Germans have working in the factories. They can go places we can’t; something as simple as cracking the mount of a press roller could shut down a car factory for a week.”

“Think we could get them to sneak some explosives into the engine blocks?” Mark half joked. “No detonator needed; just wait until someone pushes the engine hot enough to set it off.”

The older man sighed at that. “You know Mark, the solution to every problem is not necessarily to blow it up. Sometimes it’s better to be subtle.”

Mark grinned at him. “What, you think an explosion can’t be subtle? Speaking of…” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the dud grenade, waggling it at Johnson.

“Again?” Johnson groaned. “Jokes get old, you know.”

“And this one is aging like a fine wine.” They turned the corner towards the small wooden door they’d left from. Mark pulled ahead of Johnson as they approached the hideout. “Francois still hasn’t gotten used to it. I’ll bet you ten francs he ends up on the ground again.”

“Francois was in the Great War,” Johnson’s voice was heavy with disapproval. “Those reflexes may be all that kept him alive, and you should not deliberately antagonize him.”

Mark sighed. “Tell that to him.” Someone had knocked over the pile of garbage just next the door, forcing him to step over it. “If he weren’t always so-”

Johnson cut him off. “Stop! Mark, something’s wrong.”

Mark froze in front of the door. It swung lazily on its hinges, wide open. In the room beyond, unfamiliar men in stiff black uniforms stared back at him. On their lapels they wore the double lightning bolt runes of the German police.