“And I can override formalities, can’t I? Now, move along, man, or I’ll have you arrested.”
Why would Merkel refuse to show his tickets? Was God going to use her enemy to protect her? You never cease to amaze me, Lord.
Nodding, the porter stumbled forward and snatched the papers from the extended hand of an elderly woman in front of her.
“Well, that was a close one, wasn’t it?” Merkel’s voice held sarcasm, and his eyes glinted as they pinned her against the seat.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Gerard low and gunned the motorcycle engine. In a burst of speed, the vehicle shot forward. He zigzagged down the road, his wheels spitting grit and rubble. The rearview mirror registered dust clouds.
Gunfire crackled.
Bullets whizzed past him. One pinged off the side of the bike. He flinched then downshifted and careened around the roadblock with inches to spare. His heart pounded as if he were running a race. Perspiration broke out on his forehead and trickled down his spine.
He roared ahead, the barrage fading as the bike ate up the miles. His ears strained for the sound of trucks, but no rumbling followed him. Either the soldiers decided he wasn’t worth the effort or they radioed the next village to be on the lookout for him. Reason enough to eventually get off the road, with or without the bike.
Deep breaths cleared the adrenaline from his system, but his mind continued to ruminate over the situation. Had Emily evaded the SS officers? Or had her beauty drawn their scrutiny? She’d proven her abilities and her toughness, but the cruelty of Hitler’s elite was legendary. Even the staunchest agents sometimes gave way under their torture.
“Please, God, keep her safe.”
Bouncing over the uneven macadam, Gerard searched the countryside as he rode. Dips and bumps jostled the bike. He tightened his grip on the handlebars, his sweat-slicked palms struggling to maintain a hold.
In a field to his right, several emaciated cows poked their noses toward the ground nibbling at the sparse, brown grass. The herd, if he could call it that, lifted their heads as one and watched him pass. In front of a distant barn, the tiny figure of a man also seemed to observe his progress. He lifted his arm in acknowledgment but received no return wave. The farmer was probably suspicious of anyone on a motorized vehicle. After all, who could afford or acquire the fuel?
He continued on for another hour, then two. His body ached from straddling the cantankerous machine.
A signpost appeared. Fifteen more kilometers to the village. How close should he approach before ditching the bike?
As if responding to the unspoken question, the motorcycle coughed and sputtered. More coughing and a bang, then nothing. Gerard glanced at the gas gauge and sighed. He was out of petrol. Apparently, he was done with the bike and needed to get it off the road. He’d stash the motorcycle in the woods.
With dusk approaching, he had to hurry to make it to the tiny hamlet before curfew. Or should he hide out in the forest for the remainder of the night and most of tomorrow in order to arrive only a short time before the rendezvous? He rubbed his stiff fingers over his face. Since when was he so uncertain with his choices? If anything, he was usually accused of making unilateral decisions and sorting out the consequences afterward.
Another sigh escaped. He knew exactly why he was second-guessing himself, and her name was Emily. He finally understood what the military had been trying to drill into him. Every action has reaction, and that repercussion impacts platoon mates, and in this case, a partner. He couldn’t be the reason she was compromised or captured.
Gerard thrust the machine through the trees then dragged it deeper into the foliage. With a grunt, he yanked it over boulders and depressions in the terrain, the scent of evergreen trees melding with the earthy aroma of the soil. Overhead, squirrels scolded his invasion of their territory.
About a hundred yards from the road, he stopped and hid the bike under a large shrub he didn’t recognize. Not that his knowledge of France’s flora would win any awards. He walked around the bush and checked his handiwork from all angles. Satisfied the bike was concealed from prying eyes, he surveyed the surrounding area. Now to find somewhere to get some sleep.
The sound of an engine came from the direction of the road. Then doors closing and voices. His heart jumped to his throat. Had soldiers from the blockade tracked him? More likely, it was a search party from his destination. Either way, he had to find somewhere to hide. Quickly. He swiveled his neck and studied the landscape. Lots of pine and spruce. If he climbed high enough, perhaps the enemy wouldn’t see him.
He picked his way over the undulating terrain, mindful of fallen branches that would give away his position if he stepped on them. A larch stood between two pines, its limbs thick and sturdy looking
Perfect.
Voices wafted toward him on the breeze, but he was unable to make out the guttural words, signifying the men were Germans. His chest tightened. It was now or never.
He grasped the lowest branch and began to climb, ascending the tree until he was twenty feet above the forest floor. He pressed his back flush to the trunk with one arm at his side, and the other angled as if it belonged to the larch. Forcing himself to slow his breathing, he froze in position.
Footsteps came closer, the conversation louder. He nearly laughed when he translated their words. They complained about the order to search the woods. This stop was their fourth, and the men were cranky about their lack of success, but especially about being pulled away from their meal.
From the noise they made, their search was half-hearted at best. More griping, then they agreed there was no one was hiding in the forest. They marched off, and moments later, their vehicle roared to life and rumbled away.
Another narrow escape. Thank You, Lord.
The Germans’ appearance clinched his decision. He would remain in the woods for the night and set off for the village after the sun was somewhat high in the sky, so he wouldn’t have to kill time in a location where soldiers were looking for him. Would Emily be at the fountain?
j
Brakes squealed, and wisps of smoke belched past the window next to Emily as the train lurched to stop at the Port-la-Forêt station. Her stomach clenched. The last two hours had consisted of veiled comments by Hauptsturmführer Merkel followed by his travelogue of history and culture about the area, all delivered with a perfect French accent.
The SS officer seemed to enjoy toying with her. He’d been gracious and polite, but underneath his manners brewed darkness. He rose and offered her his arm.
She hesitated and nibbled her lower lip. Was he escorting her to freedom or shackles?
“Please, let me help you, Frau Suard. The journey has been arduous. You must be stiff from sitting so long.” He leaned close. “No need for you to deal with the hassle of security.”
With a shrug, Emily tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow and slung her satchel over her shoulder. They made their way off the train into the dimness of the evening. A few stars peeked through the deepening night sky. A fingernail-shaped moon hung low. The smell of coal, grease, and creosote permeated the cool air, and the conductor shouted commands over the murmur of conversation from the crowd.
Her hand gripping the rough fabric of his sleeve, she hurried to keep pace with his long strides. They entered the tiny stone hut that served as the station. Near the ticket window, three hulking, black-coated SS soldiers glowered in their direction, bringing to mind smuggled photos she’d seen from the Berlin victory parade after the fall of France. Apparently, these men hadn’t received word about Himmler’s recall of the uniforms in favor of the gray-green design Merkel wore. She shuddered. The black uniforms seemed more frightening.