Read Chapter 10: The Château

Rain fell in a thin, needle-like drizzle as Jack and Henri slipped through the orchard behind the château. The stone walls loomed ahead, dark except for the warm orange square of the great hall's windows, where the German commander's dinner party was in full swing. Laughter and the clink of glass drifted across the wet grass.

Henri paused at the edge of the tree line, pressing his back to an old apple trunk. His breath fogged in the cold night air. "The drainage channel opens behind the wine cellar's east wall," he whispered. "I told you it is flooded. In April, the water reaches the knees. But the grate is rusted. I pried it loose, once, as a boy."

"Let's hope it still is," Jack muttered.

They moved low, crouching along the drainage ditch that snaked from the pasture toward the château's foundation. Jack carried only a knife and the pistol Claire had pressed into his hand—a worn French M1935 that she'd sworn had never missed a target. Henri insisted he needed nothing but his charm and the Baron's trust.

The grate was where Henri left it—half submerged, the iron bars corroded, one hinge snapped. Jack slipped in first, the water swallowing his boots to the shin. A cold shock ran through him, and he bit down on a curse. The channel was tight, barely wide enough for his shoulders, and the ceiling brushed the top of his head.

They waded forward in silence, the only sound the soft splashing of their movements. The channel curved once, then straightened, and soon they stood beneath a rusted grate set into the cellar floor four feet above their heads.

Henri reached up, pressing both palms against the grate. It groaned, and for a tense moment, Jack's hand shot to his knife. But the noise faded, absorbed by the stone above.

Light spilled down in faint streaks. A single gas lantern hissed somewhere in the cellar, casting a dim yellow glow across a row of wine racks and wooden crates. Jack counted five crates, stacked. Dust coated everything.

Henri slid the grate aside and pulled himself up, then reached back for Jack. They emerged silent, dripping, into the cellar's cool air. Jack scanned the room—no guards, no footsteps overhead but the muffled rhythm of a waltz. The party was in full swing somewhere above them, glassware and laughter muffled by thick oak floors.

"This way," Henri said, padding toward a narrow staircase at the far end of the cellar.

The stairs led to a service door, and Henri pressed his ear to it. For a long moment he stood, listening, then eased it open a crack.

The music swelled. The hall beyond was ablaze with candlelight. Jack caught a glimpse of white tablecloth, silver serving trays, the polished black of an officer's uniform, and a long mane of grey hair—the Baron de Vaux, seated at the head of the table, his back rigid, his smile fixed and brittle as old glass.

Beside him, in a chair that seemed too small for his frame, sat a German officer Jack assumed was the sector commander. He wore the insignia of a major, and his hand rested on the table beside a glass of red wine, fingers drumming a nervous rhythm that did not match the lilting music.

Henri exhaled. "The grey one—Major Brandt. He has been with the Baron for three weeks now. Claire said he doesn't trust the old man."

"We need to get to the Baron without the major noticing."

Henri smiled, and for a moment, Jack saw the ghost of the reckless boy Henri must have been. "Watch."

He slipped through the service door and into the hallway beyond, walking not with stealth but with casual purpose, a servant carrying a tray who had simply lost his way. He ducked into a shadowed alcove beside a grandfather clock, retrieved a folded linen napkin from his coat, and used it to dab a spot of dust from a framed photograph on the wall. Then he waited.

The Baron's eyes flickered to the alcove. A slight nod. He raised his glass to Major Brandt, whispered something about a fine vintage, and rose to excuse himself.

"Must check on the roast, Major," Jack heard him say. "My chef is excellent, but temperamental. You understand."

The Baron's footsteps approached. As he passed the alcove, Henri reached out and pulled him into the shadow.

The Baron's face showed no surprise. His eyes were grey and sharp as weathered flint, and they moved from Henri to Jack with a single, assessing glance.

"You took long enough," the Baron said quietly. "I was beginning to think Claire had forgotten me."

"Claire sends her regards," Henri whispered. "And we need the cellar."

The Baron's jaw tightened. "The cellar has been sealed since the major arrived. He keeps the key on his belt. But you came through the channel."

"The drugs are still there?"

The Baron nodded, one slow, deliberate motion. "In the crate under the north wall's wine rack. Thirty kilos of plastic explosive, three dozen timers, and enough det cord to wrap the bridge twice. It was hidden there in '42, when I thought the invasion was coming that summer. No one has touched it since."

"Then we need you to cause a distraction," Jack said. "Something that pulls the guard away from the cellar stairs for two minutes."

The Baron studied Jack, and something in his expression shifted—wariness, and with it, a thread of respect. "You are the American they spoke of at the sector command this morning. They believe you are a phantom sent by the Allies to scare the coastal defenses."

Jack didn't answer.

The Baron's smile turned grim. "Good. The major keeps a dispatch in his office. They believe an armored column is forming near Cherbourg. Laughable, but they are terrified. Fear makes men reckless."

He stepped out of the alcove, brushed his lapels, and walked back toward the dining hall with the placid dignity of a man who had done nothing more than correct a stubborn servant. As he moved into the candlelight, he laid a hand on Major Brandt's shoulder and leaned close, murmuring something.

Major Brandt laughed—a hollow, barking sound—and rose from his chair. He patted the Baron's arm with false heartiness and followed him out of the hall toward a side corridor.

Henri moved. He crossed the hallway in five silent strides, ducked into the cellar stairwell, and Jack followed.

The cellar was colder now, the lantern still hissing. Henri went straight for the north wall and dropped to his knees. He dragged aside the lower rack of wine bottles, found a seam in the stone, and worked his fingers into a groove. A panel swung open on a squeaking hinge.

Crates. Plastic, green-brown, wrapped in moisture-sealed cloth. Jack reached in and pulled one out—it was heavy, dense, the shape familiar from training back in Virginia.

"You know how to use these?" Henri asked.

"Do I know how to use them." Jack's voice was flat. "I could teach a goddamn cathedral choir to blow up a chapel."

Henri allowed himself a half-smile. "Then we—"

A crash came from above, the sound of splintering glass and a muffled shout. Jack went still.

Henri's eyes widened. "That's not the party."

Boots hammered on the floor overhead. A voice barked in German—sharp, commanding, urgent. More shouts, then the sound of furniture being overturned.

Henri moved toward the stairs, but Jack grabbed his arm.

"No. If that patrol is inside the château, the channel may be watched. We need another way out."

Henri looked at the grate they'd entered through, then back at the shaft of light from the stairwell, where shadows flickered and the shouting grew closer. "There is one other way, but the Baron warned me—it is through the courtyard, past the kitchens. If we go now, we go armed, and we do not look back."

Jack hefted the crate of explosives onto his shoulder and drew the pistol from his belt.

"Then we go."

A hand pressed the cellar door open above them—a pair of black boots descending the first step. Jack shoved Henri toward the far wall, where a wooden door, low and narrow, stood half hidden behind an oak barrel.

He pulled him through, closing it just as the bootfalls reached the cellar floor.