Free Citadel by Kate Mosse

l’Aigle d’Or.’
    It was only as Raoul crossed boulevard Antoine Marty that he remembered he hadn’t told César about Antoine’s necklace. He kicked himself. The sight of the photographs had sent everything else out of his mind, brought back the familiar tightness in his chest when he thought about Bruno and how he’d died. In any case, César was in an odd mood – uncommunicative, morose.
    With any luck, Antoine would be at the meeting and he could give the chain back and it would turn out he’d been making something out of nothing. Raoul doubled back and crossed the rue de Verdun. He didn’t want to think about the alternative.

Chapter 11
    R aoul watched César enter the building next to the Café Lagarde in the rue de l’Aigle d’Or. He waited a couple of seconds, then followed and gave the password.
    ‘ Per lo Miègjorn .’ For the Midi.
    He was admitted into a dark hallway, where César was waiting for him.
    ‘Any trouble?’
    Raoul shook his head. ‘Nothing. You?’
    ‘All quiet.’
    They went up the narrow stairs in single file, towards an apartment on the first floor. Voices were muffled, just audible. César knocked – four slow raps – then opened the door.
    Raoul followed him in and found himself in a dingy kitchen. The air was thick with tobacco smoke, stale food and blocked drains.
    ‘Sanchez,’ said the man leaning over a map on the table. ‘We were about to give up on you.’
    César shrugged. ‘You were the one who wanted photographs on the flyers, Coursan.’
    Raoul glanced at César, surprised by his tone, but his face gave nothing away.
    ‘You must be Pelletier,’ Coursan said, offering his hand. ‘And this is Robert Bonnet, and his brother Gaston.’
    Raoul nodded at the two men sitting at the square table in the middle of the room. Robert was large and amiable-looking, with a handlebar moustache. Gaston was short, with mean, small eyes. The glass ashtray between them was filled with spent matches and cigarette papers. An empty jug of water and a half-full bottle of Pastis stood on the counter behind them.
    Raoul looked at Coursan, trying to get the measure of the man. He was quite short, no more than five foot seven or eight, but with a commanding physical presence all the same. Clear eyes, balanced features, with five or six days’ stubble and a moustache. He wore the same ordinary, nondescript blue trousers and open-necked shirt as the rest of them, though there was something of the bureaucrat about him.
    Raoul didn’t know where Coursan had served during the war, or what he’d done since the defeat. All he knew was that he’d set up this particular unit of résistants . One of the newest of the local groups, according to César, formed partly in reaction to the collaborationist organisations that were operating openly in Carcassonne: the PPF, the SOL, Collaboration, the Jeunes Doriotistes and the LVF were the biggest, but there were others.
    ‘What have we missed?’ said César, with the same spike of belligerence.
    Raoul couldn’t tell whether Coursan was ignoring the edge in César’s voice, or was too preoccupied to notice it. Either way, his expression gave nothing away.
    ‘I’ve been running through the plans for tomorrow,’ he said.
    ‘Let’s get on with it then, shall we?’
    Now Raoul did see a flash of anger in Coursan’s eyes, but his voice remained neutral.
    ‘We’ll be stationed here,’ he said, pointing at the plan of the town, ‘here and here. Our comrades from “24 Février” will be coming from the opposite direction, from boulevard Marcou.’ He tapped the map. ‘According to the wireless, our colleagues from “Libération” will base themselves by the Grand Café du Nord.’ He looked at César. ‘Is everything all right with the leaflets?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Coursan’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are they printed?’
    ‘They will be,’ he said curtly.
    Coursan held César’s gaze, but didn’t question him further.
    ‘The word is,’ he