Citadel by Kate Mosse Page A

at him.
    ‘You worry too much, Lulu,’ he said softly, touching her cheek.
    They climbed into the car. Lucie started the engine and they drove up the hill towards the rue du cimetière Saint-Michel. Sandrine closed her eyes, but immediately vivid images of the events of the morning rushed into her mind – distorted, distressing, confusing – and her lids snapped open again. She tried not to think of the man’s face, the desperate touch of his fingers on her arm, the rattling in his throat. What had happened to him? Where was he? Was he still alive?
    A shudder went down her spine.
    ‘You all right, kid?’ said Lucie, glancing sideways at her.
    ‘A little bit cold.’
    ‘That’s the shock kicking in.’
    Sandrine forced herself to focus on what she could see through the window of the car. Ordinary, everyday sights. A cat sunning itself on a wall, its black tail twitching back and forth against the white paint like a windscreen wiper. Two terracotta pots, like amphorae, standing either side of a door painted the colour of a bishop’s robe. A man’s hat lying at the side of the road in the rue du 24 Février.
    As they turned into rue du Manège, Sandrine remembered why the name Blum was familiar. There was a Liesl Blum in the class beneath her at school. Max’s sister perhaps, or his cousin? A quiet, studious girl, much older than her years, Liesl had been one of several students to arrive in Carcassonne after Paris fell. Now she was one of only two or three Jewish pupils left in the school. Anyone who had the money to get out, to America or to England, had gone.
    Lucie turned left into boulevard Barbès. She and Max were discussing the car, a blue Peugeot 202. Lucie was animated, her eyes bright. She seemed to know a lot. Sandrine remembered that the Ménard family owned one of the biggest garages in town.
    She leant her head against the glass, trying to decide what to do. Round and around went her thoughts, like wool unravelling from a skein. Unrelated fragments, but creating a pattern of connections all the same. And all the time those strange words echoing in her mind. So vivid, so clear, even though she didn’t understand what they meant.

Chapter 8
    R aoul didn’t stop running until he reached the montée Saint-Michel. Then he slowed to a fast walk, up the steep hill and over into the rue du 24 Février. Only when he drew level with the entrance to the cemetery did he pause. He doubled over, trying to catch his breath in the heat.
    ‘Damn,’ he muttered. ‘Damn.’
    An elderly woman, stooping to fill a watering can inside the gate, looked at him with disapproval.
    ‘ Pardon ,’ he apologised.
    Raoul waited until she was out of sight, then leant back against the wall in the shade. It had all happened so fast. One minute he was walking along the river, thinking about tomorrow. Then he’d come around the corner and seen the girl half in, half out of the water. Tried to help. Given her the kiss of life. Then the relief of realising she was all right, and he’d kissed her again. He didn’t know what had got into him.
    ‘Damn,’ he repeated.
    When he’d heard the car, his instinct for self-preservation had kicked in. Three years of war and defeat, trusting no one, meant he couldn’t hang around and see who it was. That was asking to be caught. These days, apart from doctors and a handful of civil servants, almost nobody but police and members of the administration ran private cars.
    Even so, Raoul felt shabby for leaving the girl. He ran his fingers over his hair, realising he’d dropped his hat somewhere en route. It wasn’t a great loss, but even so. He looked down. The bottoms of his trousers were wet, but the material was dark and it didn’t show.
    He pulled the chain from his pocket. The girl had been holding it. A simple silver chain, but Antoine never took it off. Could they have been together? Arranged to meet? She didn’t look like a courier, but then of course that was the point.
    He looked