Having gotten what he wanted from Oskar, Jörg only needed to tidy up a few other loose ends.
He planned to talk to Fabrice by himself in private, not wanting Lila there in case he was forced to use stronger language than he’d needed with Oskar. She’d felt so hurt just hearing Lieutenant Colonel Kreutzer’s words that Jörg wouldn’t take her anywhere he might have to resort to bribery or threats of violence.
Leaving Lila to gather information at the Eiffel Tower, Jörg leaped to Kleinerbrunn alone. By now, Fabrice and the farmwives must be waiting impatiently for the next pickup. Jörg would meet Fabrice, saying he was an acquaintance of Oskar’s.
Jörg took on the same middle-aged-merchant disguise he’d used the last time he was here. When he arrived at the village, he turned invisible and wandered around for a little while to observe the state of the place.
The harvest of the meager crops was quickly wrapping up, and the French POWs had started to get ready to return to their internment camp. They greeted any villagers they recognized and spent some time chatting happily with them.
The farmwives offered the prisoners a tea made from herbs, and today, the German guards were also joining them in relaxed conversation. The Frenchmen sent to the village here must have been exemplary prisoners. A sense of calm seemed to surround the place.
Fabrice visited several houses, saying his farewells to each one, promising that he’d be back the following spring when they started sowing seeds, and lamenting that he had to say good-bye. Some of the younger women he even quickly had sex with, as if it were a common occurrence.
Fabrice spent a particularly long time talking with Hanna. Unlike some of the others, she didn’t treat him as a lover, but like a reliable employee, maintaining that same resolute demeanor of a general right up until the end.
“Next year will be worse,” she told him. “Even with you here to help.”
“You should grow something else. Something that will sell for more,” Fabrice said, sounding somewhat hesitant. “Though you’ll have to spend a bit at first.”
“I’ll think about it.”
He left Hanna’s house and walked toward the prisoners’ living quarters, Jörg following close behind. When they eventually reached a place where no one else was around, Jörg appeared behind Fabrice.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said in French, “but I would like to discuss purchasing some of the crops here.”
Startled, Fabrice turned around and saw Jörg. He had met this merchant before, but it seemed he’d never imagined the man could speak French.
“I’m a prisoner,” replied Fabrice. “I only help with the fields because the Germans ordered me to.”
“I am aware. And yet, you’re well acquainted with a number of farmwives here and have your own special distribution channels, do you not?”
“You should really talk to the women about that. Harvest season’s over, so I’m on my way back to the camp.”
“I am here at the referral of Mr. Oskar Gulke. He and I are in the same line of work. Are you sure you wish to lose that business?” Jörg asked, and Fabrice frowned slightly. “The other day, I spoke to many of the farmers around here. I didn’t get anywhere, however, so I reached out to Mr. Gulke, who agreed to allow me to take over his dealings with you.”
“What?!”
“As such, from now on, I will be the one buying from you. I am already aware of the prices Mr. Gulke was paying, so you won’t need to worry about that.”
Jörg removed a letter from his jacket pocket and handed it to Fabrice. It was addressed to him from Oskar—fake, of course.
Fabrice silently ran his eyes over the page. He seemed absorbed by his thoughts as he read. The letter purposefully omitted any mention of providing information on Berlin, and Jörg waited to see how Fabrice would react once he finished reading.
Fabrice folded the letter in half. “I’m very sorry, but I won’t believe it until I hear it directly from him. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to talk about this another day.”
“Aren’t you about to go back to the internment camp, though?”
“The farmwives here will act in my place. Once I verify that this letter is real, you can start working with them. I won’t be here to meet with you, but I’m sure the women will be eager to help.”
“I don’t believe Mr. Gulke will be able to meet with you. He has begun to worry that his life is in danger.”
“What do you mean?”
“The two of you traded more than just food. The German intelligence branch seems to have caught wind of that arrangement, and Mr. Gulke was forced to flee. All things considered, I won’t be taking over that part of his business.”
Jörg took a step forward. “All I want is food. Your presence is no longer necessary.”
“What are you talking about?” Fabrice asked, taking a step back. “I just help the women on the farm. That’s all.”
“I know everything. But I haven’t yet told the intelligence branch about what you’ve been up to.”
“Enough with the accusations.”
“Shall we go to Berlin, then? Do you think you’ll be able to keep up your story in front of an officer of the Abteilung III b?”
Fabrice grimaced, and Jörg pressed further. “If you don’t want to be interrogated, then do what I tell you. Convince the farmwives to give me the food supply route you were involved with.”
“Is that it?”
“One more thing: Go home. And don’t ever work as a spy again.”
“That easy enough to say, but I’m still a prisoner.”
“I’ll help you escape from here.”
“What…?”
“Instead of going back to the internment camp, you’ll run away from Kleinerbrunn. No one will blame you for it. The army has its hands full managing all the prisoners here, so honestly, they’ll probably be happy to have one less person to look after. And running away from the village will bring down fewer repercussions on the guards than if you escape from the camp.”
“You want me to cross the wilderness in winter without any food or equipment?”
“I can take you to Paris. Once you’re there, you can do whatever you want.”
Fabrice shook his head in disbelief. “I’m French. I’m your enemy.”
“I experienced horrible things on the battlefield,” explained Jörg. “I know how badly soldiers want to go home. You’d much rather go home than keep doing a risky job in a place like this, wouldn’t you?”
“If I go home, they might send me right back to the front lines. I couldn’t handle that.”
“Come up with a plan so they can’t do that. Go into hiding and wait for the war to end.”
Fabrice turned away, his eyes burning with anger. He didn’t say anything for a while, then finally growled, “Fine. I’ll do it. What do I need to do first?”
“Take me to the house of the farmwife you’re closest with and introduce me as the new buyer.”
Fabrice nodded, then walked ahead, leading the way.
Relieved, Jörg walked after him.
The next moment, Fabrice spun around, swinging his arm violently, and struck a fierce blow to Jörg’s temple. Jörg’s vision swam, and he collapsed to the ground.
Fabrice bolted off.
Jörg jumped up and chased after him. He hadn’t thought convincing Fabrice would be easy, so he’d half expected things to turn out this way.
Fabrice wasn’t heading in the direction of the houses, but toward the forest, and he dashed into the thicket. A second later, two gunshots rang out, apparently having been fired into the air.
There’s no way Fabrice had a gun concealed on him, Jörg thought skeptically as he walked up to where the man had disappeared. Nearby was an old abandoned shack. Considering the situation, the most likely scenario was that Fabrice had hidden a gun here and used it to signal his friends.
Jörg pulled a Browning M1900 from his coat pocket and ran past an oak tree with twisted branches spread wide, heading deeper into the forest. He didn’t know if Fabrice was planning to try to get away from him or to shoot him. Even if the German guards had heard the gunshots, they would have a hard time figuring out where they’d come from.
Jörg gripped the pistol tighter. He had to either eliminate Fabrice or convince him to keep quiet about their conversation. Lila’s worried face appeared in his mind. He’d put off making that decision until the very last moment.
Leaves crunched underfoot as Jörg crept carefully through the forest. There were no paths. This wasn’t somewhere that people and carts passed through. It was close to the farmland, though, so it seemed like people came here regularly foraging for herbs and mushrooms. Signs had been notched in tree trunks using hatchets, and the ivy that would otherwise block the path had been carefully trimmed away.
Each step forward released the characteristic smell of trampled leaves. It was almost impossible to move without making a noise. The branches of the trees intertwined like a bird’s nest, and the grass, which was still green despite the season, covered the ground as far as the eye could see. Jörg kept going, careful not to touch the clusters of nettles. Forests provided excellent cover for hiding, but they made it difficult to detect someone sneaking up on you. It was different from holding a gun and charging across the open ground of no-man’s-land. If Jörg was being honest with himself, he wasn’t confident he could drop his target in an environment like this.
Another gunshot rang out, and a piece of a nearby trunk disintegrated, as if it had been hit with a whip. Jörg ducked behind the tree and raised his gun, finger resting on the trigger. He didn’t know how many people he was facing, so he couldn’t predict how many shots might come his way. The magazine of a pistol carried a maximum of seven rounds, so each person out here could have that many shots—more, if they were carrying extra clips.
Even if they shot him, though, he wouldn’t die. It would hurt a lot, but if Jörg couldn’t find the enemy combatants, he could always let them shoot him and wait for them to show themselves.
The Count had told him he was immortal, but Jörg hadn’t actually tested that yet. It was possible he hadn’t inherited enough magic and could still die. He’d find out by getting shot—not that that was a method he particularly cared to test out. It was a bad joke that left his heart feeling heavy.