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A rmand Abadie sat under the shade of an umbrella in the Place du Capitole, in the café he frequented most afternoons. He had just finished a satisfactory lunch, paid for by La Legion Francaise des Combattants, and pushed the empty plate to one side before lighting a cigarette.

Since his recent promotion, he had the authority to sign off on the accounts, so it was easy to slip his own indulgences through as a valid expense.

It was the least France could do for him after his great sacrifice.

His eyes strayed to his wasted leg, and the familiar feeling of self-pity crept over him.

Some of the organisation members made a habit of lunching together, but he didn’t enjoy groups.

He liked people watching. Toulouse had become a cesspit of the dregs of society, since thousands of Spanish Republicans piled in, seeking refuge from the civil war and the Franco regime.

And there were thousands of Jews, too. They had long been a bitter pill for Armand to swallow.

They’d been flooding into France for as long as he could remember, but since the occupation, it had become unbearable.

They came from all over, and just the thought of them taking over his beloved city made his stomach churn.

One morning, as he sat on guard duty, he plotted Abraham’s murder. At first, he didn’t take his fantasies seriously, and merely enjoyed the bloody scenarios that played out in his mind, whilst the minutes dragged, and his stomach growled for the next pitiful meal.

Abraham asked him one day, ‘Have I done something to offend you, Armand?’

Armand declined to reply. Everyone knew the Jews were wily. He had watched Abraham closely, and saw he was popular in the regiment. His loyal French citizen act was all a pretence, and Armand would not be duped like the others.

Towards the end of the war, Abraham was awarded a Croix de Guerre for bravery, and Armand was overlooked even though he too took part in the Third Battle of the Aisne, and his damaged leg was a result of his own feats of bravery.

He told himself it was too much for any proud Frenchman to bear.

How could these Jews act as though they belonged in his country?

How could the government award a medal to this Jew scum, and not recognise him?

It was shameful enough he’d gone unnoticed in his younger years because he was from a poor family. The French Republic pretended to be for the working man, but it was obvious they favoured the elite.

Armand had never received any commendation for his WW1 service and resentment fuelled his yearning to be recognised for his patriotism.

He stubbed out his cigarette as his eyes scanned the square until they rested on a glamourous looking young couple.

The man was tall, well-built and classically handsome.

A truly beautiful specimen and a familiar ache tortured Armand’s loins as he gazed at him.

Armand could tell he was a native Frenchman by the way he carried himself and wore his clothes.

The woman at his side was beautiful too, but held no interest for Armand, so his eyes flickered back to the man striding across the square.

His stomach rarely growled these days, because of his comfortable position, but a different hunger clawed at him.

He forced his errant thoughts aside, chastising himself for the weakness he knew they showed.

Even so, he couldn’t stop his eyes from straying back to the man continuously and he watched him display impeccable French manners as he helped the woman be seated at the table.

His thoughts turned to whether they were a married couple or just dating.

Impatiently, he shook himself and lit another cigarette.

Indulging his feverish thoughts was a sin—one he daren’t confess even to his priest. Abraham had also been good looking for a Jew.

His face dominated Armand’s mind again, drawing his attention away from the beautiful couple across the square.

The thrill of satisfaction always cheered him when he relived the incident he had so cleverly engineered.

Armand settled his bill and thought about the little game of cat and mouse he loved to play.

Every day when he sat alone at the café, eating his lunch, he would watch people and decide who was a person of interest. It was the perfect spot for fishing out traitors of every description.

The Nazis had sent them intelligence that Resistance groups were spiralling out of control in occupied France, and they were showing signs of gaining traction in Vichy France too.

The Gestapo issued specific orders to the Legion that they must not allow the Resistance in any shape or form to embed itself here in any meaningful way. They were causing chaos in Northern France, and they would not stand for a similar situation in the South.

Armand was doing all he could to ingratiate himself with the Nazis.

Any fool could see they would win the war and rule the world.

The veteran fantasised about securing a place at the top table.

Hitler’s table. He admired Hitler enormously, despite the Germans’ role in the First War, which had wounded his leg and his delicate self-esteem.

Armand could see the Führer’s vision of the future clearly, and he was determined not to be overlooked this time.

The game sometimes ended there, but at other times led him to trigger a secret investigation.

He didn’t share his suspicions and suspect details with fellow members of the organisation and preferred to keep the potential glory for himself.

Monitoring the suspected traitors was a pleasure, and he often worked late into the night, after his official duties at the bureau were long finished.

He would run through various scenarios of what a person, couple or group might be doing in the Place du Capitole, and then decide whether they warranted further surveillance.

It was a time intensive endeavour, because the administration’s records were poor.

With so many refugees and displaced French citizens fleeing to Toulouse, they didn’t have the systems in place to register them all.

Armand relished the thought of bringing traitors to justice and gaining recognition from Marshal Pétain, even though he also harboured some resentment towards him, and ultimately aimed to work closely with the Germans.

The Nazis understood what needed to be done to cleanse Europe of the nasty virus that had poisoned it.

Armand had every confidence that his day would come, so for now he was committed to rising through the ranks of the Vichy regime and he would be perfectly positioned when the Third Reich ruled the world.

He rose with a sigh. He would have liked to stay a while longer, but his formal duties called, and his passion would have to wait.

Armand neared the table where the beautiful couple sat, and it pleased him to see the man was even more impressive up close. He limped across the square back towards his office and was careful not to look at them.

They didn’t seem suspicious, but he hoped he would see the man again soon. His loins still burned, and he decided he would pay a visit to his mistress later that afternoon. It wasn’t healthy for a full-bloodied male not to relieve himself and satisfy his appetites.

He entered the Legion and sat down at his desk in his private office.

A report lay on his desk about Resistance cells springing up in the South, and Armand reviewed it thoroughly.

Many of these traitors were dirty Jews and Communists, and it would be his greatest pleasure to rid his country of them once and for all.