Red Rainbow by G Johanson (top books of all time TXT) 📗

could be harmonious,” Hilaire said, offering an olive branch and picking this word rather than the one Florence meant.

“Me be harmonious with a Red? Don’t know about that,” Florence teased. Hilaire knew she was trying to wind her up. She still corrected her.

“Communist. They’re going a little far, especially when they outmuscle a lot of the staff, but they’re not in the same league as the Milice.”

“No. Those men give the Far Right a bad name.”

“Being Far Right earns a bad name in its own right.”

“By your politics, Comrade, not by mine.”

Hilaire chose to pretend she didn’t hear that, focusing on the ugly scenes below, indefensible stuff, really. The Communists stayed outside the gates and impeded admission for further groups and individuals over the next hour. They provided entertainment during the long stakeout even if it got harder for Hilaire to defend them while Florence attacked them. They seemed to have caught some of the workers on the hop, like they couldn’t work out what was going on. Was this an impromptu protest? That seemed a poor tactic if they wanted high numbers to protest their conditions and pay. There was the possibility that the union had drafted in men from another plant or company to protest here where there could be no retaliation. That would explain why none of the workers knew them – some of the more vocal workers made that clear, challenging them and getting jostled about and worse for daring to go against the mob.

“They’re all men,” Hilaire commented.

“And?” Florence was missing the point. Hilaire had not belatedly noticed their gender. She’d seen that from the start (though without her glasses she’d probably not have been able to tell). The significance of this finally struck her.

“Communism is about equality for all. We have high female membership. A wide range of ages too.” The men on display were in their 20s to late 30s, maybe early 40s at a push. The age range one would expect of soldiers...

“I’m convinced,” Florence said. Whether she was or not, this was a potential feast for her insatiable appetites, Germans or Communists acceptable sacrifices. Hilaire had to be more certain that this was not a legitimate protest before she’d consider unleashing her on potential comrades. There was a bigger red flag that made this seem a sham. The red flag on the placard they held, for one – her loose acquaintances (their choice, not hers) in the party were more discreet than that. More suspicious than that, though, they were quiet, obstructing admission in and out of the ground without entering into discourse with the workers. A Communist protest was never silent, anything but. They were Germans, unable to speak as their accents would give them away and ruin the disguise.

“Hold that thought. Be ready.”

“I always am.”

Hilaire followed her own advice. Florence looked to her, feeling something in the air around them. Hilaire did not explain that she could use the very air to create a protective shield. No snipers would hit them, nothing would get through. Patience’s note had provided perfect information. Either one of these would-be assassins had died (no great loss) or there was more to her power than she thought. Patience said she didn’t understand her gift other than dead spirits wrote through her. Why not the living too? The unconscious mind was as capable as the conscious mind, perhaps even liable to betray itself. That was something she could raise with her later, a conversation she’d play by ear, poor Patience not yet at ease with her gift. Hilaire would make sure to praise her for this. Lives would be saved through this. Some lost too, yes, but these were necessary sacrifices to save the innocent.

The note had mentioned arson. Presumably, they were letting the full complement of staff turn up (bar the national director, who was otherwise engaged) before striking. Hilaire wanted to catch them just prior to the act, which meant keeping Florence in check. If somehow they were innocent (not likely), she was going to have trouble talking her down. Had anyone ever seized a meal from in front of her before?

The group had no appointed leader as such. They had come to conclusions together and formulated this plan. A designated leader may have achieved justice quicker. Their leaders had failed them. 87 of their comrades had been murdered in cold blood at a place where they should have been able to relax and forget their troubles. The consequences for this slaughter so far – virtually nothing. A couple of arrests with nothing to show for it, and an unusual aversion to making reprisals. They had volunteers lined up and ready to do it for them, they just had to give the nod. Nothing.

The only lead the Gestapo had was the manager of this slush factory who had wined and dined the demon or whatever she was that was involved in the slaughter. César Vadeboncoeur was arrested in conjunction with this meeting yet was rumoured to receive preferential treatment inside. Worse than that, their colleagues who reported this seemed okay with it. He’d been trying to help, apparently. Yeah, help her get away with it, and he was doing a fine job. He was up to his massaged and oiled slimy neck in it – they’d never met him yet seemed to have the measure of him better than those who had.

They couldn’t get to him, but his business would suffer. His workers would not live to rue the day they accepted their doomed position under him. They joked about this in advance, that they were doing a public service to the dental industry of France. Whatever trade the dentists lost, the undertakers would make up for it, laughing all the way to the bank and the morgue.

There was no joking today. This was a serious business. The first crack in their unity came when a beauty started walking down the road that caught the eyes of all men on the street. They