Monsieur Robertson
"Soldier, I'm glad to see you have taken advantage of my hospitality," the man said. "I hope you rested well." "Smile!" as a flashbulb went off. He put down a camera. "I like to document my guests' stays. Helps when I reminisce about him or her.
He must be the leader of this band of, well, the jury was out on that, but they were not friendly. Spots from the flash danced through his view before they finally cleared, and he again could see his host. Never talkative, the soldier listened in silence while his captor filled the air with chatter.
"Are you a bit upset about how you were handled? Do you have something to complain about? So sorry." Obviously not.
Whether the soldier talked or not was incidental to this man. He rattled on, hardly pausing for breath, much less allowing a response to any of his questions.
"Ah, the bashful type. That's all right. I'm sure we will find something to talk about soon." "Don't give me that speech about the Geneva Convention, either. It does not apply to me.
"I am not involved or interested in this war, except how it impinges on my operations." "I deal in information, goods, and people." He paused for breath before going on, as he moved to stand close to the soldier. Close enough to touch.
The soldier stiffened. This man was giving him the willies. Everything about him radiated menace.
"Careful, soldier. Do not think of resisting. There is a rather large knife in Andre's hand, and he is right behind you." "Knives, I think, hurt worse than a bullet. They leave a much bigger hole. And are so, ah, shall we say, messy." The soldier felt a strong hand grip his uninjured arm and the touch of something sharp on his back.
"You may call me Monsieur Robertson. Of course, not my real name. I will call you," fingering the dog tags around the soldier's neck, "'Soldier'. You will remain nameless here. Nameless and without rank. Makes you a nonentity." As the man spoke, he removed the soldier's tags and pocketed them. "You'll get the same treatment I give most of my guests, unless you offer me something valuable. Quickly.
"Enough about you. Let me tell you about me and my purpose for, acquiring you." "I'm French, Corsican, really, and English. You'll find that most of my people here speak English fluently as well as French, français. A fair number of them also speak allemande, German. Something tells me that neither are languages you speak or understand. Typical American." Not so subtly, the Frenchman was letting the soldier know that anything he might say would be understood by the men that were chosen to guard him.
"I answer to neither Vichy or De Gaulle. King George or Hitler. I control this piece of territory; I'm rather powerful."
The man finally paused for more than just to take a breath. He whisked a cover off a large comfortable-looking wingback chair. From a sideboard, he poured himself a snifter of some liquor, brandy, the soldier assumed. The man swirled the brandy in the glass, sniffed appreciatively, and took a sip. "Ahhh." He seated himself carefully in the chair, placed his feet on an ottoman and leaned back, settling in.
The soldier figured he was in for a long discourse from this Robertson character. His captor was quite a performer.
Robertson started talking again. "Perhaps you've heard of LeMilieu. The French underworld, not the underground. Think of me as a French Al Capone but much smarter, and more highly placed. I am the Caïd, here. You might say, "the big cheese, the top dog." Even the boche are not able to control me, us.
"I have allies in powerful positions, in many departments. I'm a merchant, goods and people. Just a simple trader. Since you fall into the latter category, we'll talk about that. I obtain people for various purposes and clients. I suppose you would call me a kidnapper, but we prefer to think of it as trading in commodities. Sometimes these commodities come to me willingly, eager to see different places, escape bad situations, or experience new sensations. Others arrive, a bit more reluctantly, much like you. I always have clients willing to accommodate these commodities. A time-honored profession, commodity trading, and one my family has plied for more than a few generations. On both sides of la Manche. The Channel, or the English Channel, you know it as. My mother is Cornish, one of her grand-pères, from Kent. Should you choose not to share information, you will learn more about my family's traditions, especially those from the Continent. My English forebears were not quite as, um, creative.
"Like all commodities, people have a certain value, depending on their use. Soldier. You were too tempting to ignore. A lone American. Well in front of your lines and obviously on a mission. Trespassing on my territory. Not really even a guest. You are a rare commodity, and will be of interest to a select few, although I just may want to hold onto you for my own purposes." Monsieur Robertson paused and took another sip of his brandy.
"As for the Occupation, as long as I kept a discrete operation, the authorities left, leave me alone. Both the French and the German. I am careful. I rarely deal with the boche or with the resistance. I trust neither. The boche are invaders, so I limit my contacts, although I occasionally serve as a middleman. But nothing that would compromise my standing as a Frenchman. I will be here after they are gone, the boche. With what I know about my fellow citizens, well, I am secure. La Résistance, there are too many petty quarrels. They barely keep their political differences under control. Communists, leftists, and De Gaulle supporters. Too much infighting over who gets control of not just a group or cell, but after la guerre, the war. I don't deal in politics.
"The war has come into my territory. I must temporarily curtail some of my activities. Once it passes through, I imagine that most things will be as before the boche came here, perhaps better. I am no collaborator. You, however, are not a Frenchman, so it would not be considered wrong if somehow you found yourself as a guest of the Gestapo or SS. Many people in this part of France are not happy with the Allies. You've destroyed a great deal here.
"La guerre. Strange how that activity, guerre, is feminine and men serve her, write poems to her, sing of her glory, is it not? Ah, that's a woman. We men are fascinated by them, try and please them. La guerre. Truly female." "And women. How they despise that competition that keeps so many of the menfolk occupied. They could be jealous. After all, they lose out to the charms of La Guerre. Every time." Robertson took another sip of his brandy while he considered that great philosophical thought he chose to share with the soldier. Yet, the soldier's mien had barely altered, nor had he uttered a word. Most interesting.
"As far as disposition of the merchandise. That all depends, as I said before. Sometimes I let families know and let them make an offer. Others already have a "buyer" and I just was the means to procure them. Some I release, although I like to play with them first. And do. Sadly, most don't want to play. They get damaged, occasionally beyond repair. I so hope you aren't one of those.
"I'm still thinking how and who will get an opportunity with you." "You may have even more value than you might otherwise have, because things are so, fluid, at the moment." "Perhaps I should let you go to the highest bidder." He sighed theatrically. "One must make a living."
Barely able to keep from rolling his eyes, the soldier thought, how did I wind up in a really bad Hollywood movie or radio play? What kind of a hack is writing his lines? Perils of Pauline to life? Where's that twirling mustache? the swirling cape? as he remembered those Saturday morning serials that occasionally he got to see. It would be funny; except I know this man can kill me. He won't even bat an eye while he does it either.
"I suppose you have information?" The soldier only shook his head in reply. He wasn't even required to give his name, rank, or serial number; this man was a civilian. He'd taken his dog tags, so he already had that information. "I know you do. You wouldn't be this far forward if you weren't gathering information for someone." "No matter, by the time you get back to your lines, it will be stale and useless, so you could let me know what you learned. No need for you to get damaged fruitlessly."
Silence.
The man studied the soldier carefully. He would be an interesting nut to crack. One that would be well worth cracking. He wondered idly; how much could this man stand before breaking. A challenge. It had been awhile since such a prize had come his way. Robertson decided he would keep the soldier for himself.
The soldier also studied Robertson. He decided, there is a man without any soul. If he'd had one, he'd sold it a long time ago to the devil. Those dark brown eyes held no humanity, no heart. His smiles never touched his eyes. He will show no mercy, no matter how convivial he sounds on the surface.
The two men had accurately assessed each other.
"Well." "I expected as much from you." "I so love a challenge. I'm sure you will prove to be a worthy opponent." He took another sip from the snifter, then made to stand up.
Roughly, the soldier was pulled to his feet. Robertson clapped him on his injury, sending a wave of pain through his body. "So glad we had this little chat." "Soldier, do not mistake me for some movie villain. I assure you. I am the real thing. I just love those bad lines and enjoy seeing people's reaction to them. You did not disappoint."
A few rapid commands in French. He was hustled down the hall and shoved into a small room. A few large, armed men followed him in and forced him against a corner on the far wall. The soldier was turned to face the wall and pressed hard into the corner. A pistol was jammed into his spine as the bonds on his hands were cut. His captors slowly backed away and out of the room. The door slammed closed. The sound of a heavy bolt being driven home let the soldier know the door was secured from the outside. There wasn't even a doorknob on the inside of the door. He heard his host say, "Soldier. I recommend you eat and drink a little something now, it will be a long time before you have that opportunity again."
The soldier ignored the comment. He surveyed his surroundings. The door was the only way in or out. Well and truly trapped. A bare bulb, glowing with maybe 25 watts of power, hung from the ceiling. Masquerading as a bed, a thin soiled mattress lay atop a set of springs. A metal pot was on the floor in a corner. Large dark stains marked the concrete floors and walls. Near the door stood a tiny table set for supper, he supposed. A steaming bowl of stew with a spoon laid carefully to the side. A hunk of bread rested on a small plate. A bottle of wine stood next to the bread. The stew smelled delicious and after a long day without food, he was hungry. Monsieur Robertson hadn't returned his jacket, so he didn't even have the little emergency cracker he kept stashed in there. Thinking of his jacket and the chill that was beginning to settle in, the soldier picked his shirt off the floor from where it had fallen when he was shoved into the room. He shrugged into it, favoring his hurt, and buttoned it up.
His attention went back to that tiny table and the repast laid on it. May as well eat. Hopefully, the stuff wasn't poisoned.
The soldier was hungrier than he thought, almost ravenous. He made short work of the bread and stew, although he did slow down towards the end to enjoy the taste and textures. He could have done with a little more. First real food he'd had in a long time. He didn't count cold rations, or even rations heated up, as "real" food. Army mess food was a bit better, but nothing compared to home cooking. He sighed, not the time to think of home. The wine, though. There wasn't very much wine, maybe three or four inches in the bottle. It didn't measure up to the stew and bread. He was no connoisseur of wine, but even he thought there was something a bit off about it. He would have preferred just straight water or maybe a beer and water, but all there was to drink was the wine. So, he did. After taking care of business and walking the entire room a few more times trying to find any weaknesses, he sat on the edge of the bed.
He felt a little tired. He supposed the day, heck, the past few weeks, was catching up with him. He lay down on the mattress, springs squawking a protest as they compressed. He felt every spring almost as if the mattress wasn't even there. How did I manage to stumble into a crime boss's territory and worse, get caught? He tried to formulate a way to escape, but without knowing more that would be hard. He shifted on the mattress, trying to get comfortable and keep an ambitious spring away from his stab wound. Sleepy. He closed his eyes. The soldier didn't notice when men came in the room.
A/N: LeMilieu is the general name for the French mob. The old mob had roots in Corsica. Just think of the Mafia, whose fingers are in every pie. Like many in the criminal world, members were often born into the business. Some took sides in the war, depending on what part of France they lived in.
A/N: Administratively, France is divided into regions then departments. The original divisions of France into departments occurred during the French Revolution, in part to help break up the old allegiances to the nobility or regions. The area referred to as Normandy is broken into five departments. Calvados is probably the best known to Americans as that area is the site of Omaha Beach. Utah Beach is in the next western department, Manche. Slightly to the east of Omaha, in order, are Gold, Juno, and Sword Beaches assigned to the British and Canadian forces. Mostly in Calvados, although Sword is also in Eure. The highest casualties were at Omaha Beach, where our squad came ashore.
A/N. Smuggling was a time-honored way of earning a living in some of the English counties that were along the coasts. Wreckers would often draw ships onto the rocks along these coasts, especially during storms, by lighting fires or lights that could be seen at sea by sailors anxious to reach safe harbor. The lights, rather than serve as lighthouses to keep the sailors from fetching up on rocks, would guide them to wreck on those rocks instead. People along the shore would go out to the wrecks to retrieve the goods aboard ship, and might kill any surviving crew. Because "dead men tell no tales." Cornwall and Kent, both along the southern coast of England were two of these counties.