The Berlin Escape

by Warren Court

  The first order of business was to make that contact with British Intelligence. Her uncle had given her a sketchbook and a set of charcoals and chalk. This was all part of this contact phase: she was to play the part of a tourist. It had been years since she’d last drawn something. Art was never her thing. But she’d practised with the charcoal and chalk while she was on the ship, sketching out a lifeboat and the smoke stacks rising above her on the sun deck.

  Now here she was in Paris, with things to sketch all around her. An old woman throwing dirty dish water into the gutter. A vegetable seller pushing a cart loaded with produce. But what was she supposed to draw? She decided on the Eiffel Tower. It was all a ruse, an excuse for her to carry some chalk, which she’d been told she would need when making contact with the Brits.

  Walton had called it fieldcraft. There had been a lot to learn and no time to teach her. She would need these skills if she was to successfully go into the Third Reich and make it out again. Thankfully the British would be there to guide her, give her a quick introductory course on being a spy.

  She’d watched plenty of spy flicks on the silver screen. The 39 Steps was her favourite. And now here she was playing the part. No, not playing, Aubrey. You are the real deal. Just remember that and you might make it out alive.

  Aubrey took her shoulder bag full of art supplies down to the River Seine and crossed over to the Left Bank. The walkways winding along the river were crowded with artists; it was going to be hard to get a spot to sit. First things first, though. She located the light post at the corner of the Quai D’Orsay and Rue Malar as per her instructions. She held the piece of chalk in her hand down by her side, her bag over her shoulder. She casually walked by the light post and left a streak of white chalk on its blackened metal. She kept moving. Down another block, there was another light post. This time the mark was to be made on the left-hand side. She had to shift the chalk to her other hand. She paused, shielding her eyes from the spring sunshine with her free hand, and left the mark.

  There were people everywhere; couples strolling hand in hand; fellow artists and bohemians; men ogling girls. She heard more than one of them call out to her or whistle. She ignored them. With her pantomime done, she found a quiet spot along the Seine and proceeded to play at being the carefree artist, sketching the Eiffel Tower in the distance among the apartment buildings lining the river.

  She spent an hour at that, kept it simple: straight lines of the monument, squares for the buildings, lightly shading it in.

  “You’ll never make it as an artist,” she heard someone say behind her in English. Aubrey’s heart skipped a beat and her hand started to shake. The final spire of the tower went off at an absurd angle.

  “There’s always the theatre,” she said in reply, without turning. This was the correct phrasing, the challenge and response. Sign, countersign. There was an empty spot on the bench and the man sat down. He wore a brown suit with a Derby, which she knew the British called a bowler. And the man was British; there was no mistaking the accent. He removed his hat to wipe his forehead with his handkerchief.

  “There is nothing like a springtime day in Paris, is there?” he said. The second sequence of challenge-and-response phrases.

  “It is warm. London is nice too.”

  “Your marks were not that well done. I could barely see the first one.”

  “Sorry. My first time,” she said while continuing to sketch the tower. The man had not turned to her yet. When he finally did, she took that as a cue that the formalities were over. She looked at him and tried to conceal her shock. It was him—the man from Belgium. The one who had so unceremoniously dumped that poor dead man into the back of the truck. And then dumped her along the side of the road after setting fire to her little Polish airplane.

  “Hewitt Purnsley,” he said.

  “Aubrey Endeavours.”

  “When you’re ready, Miss Endeavours,” he said.

  She put her things away. “Lead the way.”

  They walked along the Seine. He put his hand on her back more than once, caressed her shoulder as they paused and looked at Notre Dame cathedral. The touch of his hand on her made her go rock still. She knew it was all an act, pretending to be lovers in the city of love. She found it hard to get used to.

  “Have you been fully briefed?”

  “Aren’t you going to be doing that?”

  “Quite. I’m to fill you in on your assignment. But first, there’s a few things we have to teach you. Otherwise, you’ll just muck it up.”

  She knew what that meant: arrested for espionage, and by the Gestapo, no less. Not a pleasant prospect.

  “If you are to have any chance of succeeding and getting out of there, you’ll listen to everything I have to tell you.” He pulled a camera out and took pictures. He put it away, and she slipped her hand around his arm and back into her jacket pocket, then rested her head on his shoulder like others were doing.

  “Are you always this rude?” she asked.

  “If you find me disagreeable, it’s because there is so little time. And what I have to teach you will help you survive. Are we clear?”

  She lifted her head and removed her hand. To hell with the ruse—boyfriend, girlfriend, two young lovers.

  “Whatever you say.”

  “As I said, we don’t have much time. Your training starts now. We’re going to walk up this street. I want you to remember every number plate you see. Record them all.”

  “You mean license plates. That’s it? No problem.”

  They strolled a block. There were trucks and cars, Peugeots and Citroens and large lorries with growling diesel engines belching black smoke. She made a game of it, trying to sing the license plates she saw in her head. They got to the end the block and she started to recite them. She was six into it when she paused and then cautiously carried on. The jocularity of the moment was gone. The look on Purnsley’s face told her to be serious. She recounted ten plate numbers correctly.

  “You missed two cars.”

  “Not a bad batting average.”

  “And you missed the scooters entirely.” There had been half a dozen.

  “You didn’t say scoot—”

  “I said number plates. Another block. Try again.”

  At the end of two hours, Aubrey was exhausted from these memory games. Her last time, she got them all. For the last two plates, she had to dig deep and come up with them even though she’d just seen them.

  “You’re tired. Long journey. You want to quit?”

  She sighed. “I do want a rest.”

  “You think that’s what you’ll get out there in the field, in enemy territory—a moment to rest?”

  She turned away from him.

  “This is important. Remembering a license plate will help you spot a tail. It’s basic counter-surveillance.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re not crying, are you?”

  “Gosh, no. I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.”

  He gave a small smile. He’d liked that. “They said you were tough.”

  “Who did?”

  “They. That’s all they ever are—just they. But if you must know, your man Walton told me how tough you were. Resilient was the word he used. And I saw what you were capable of myself in Belgium. Look, Miss Endeavours, this is standard training. Normally, we would spend a month on this material. I only have you for two days, then I have to send you into Germany. One of the most oppressive and paranoid regimes on the planet.”

  “I understand. Maybe we could switch it up, try something else.”

  “Fine. It’s getting late. How about dinner first?”

  “Come to think of it, yes.”

  “This is Paris. We should be able to find somewhere decent to eat. But keep your guard up. Your training is not taking a break. The enemy certainly won’t.”

  “Understood.”

  7

  They were halfway through their entrees, stuffed sole for Aubrey, a small braised lamb shank for Hewitt, when he fina
lly had the first serious thing to say to her. They had sipped wine; he had drunk his sparingly, and she had matched his sedate pace. Normally she would have enjoyed a full glass.

  “You mustn’t get drunk,” he told her. “At a cocktail reception or bar, order a club soda with lime by yourself, then when you’re with others they’ll think it’s gin or vodka. Liquor has done in more men in my line than you can imagine.”

  “When do I get to put it like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “My line.”

  “When you’ve been at it as long as I have.”

  “And how long has that been?”

  “You’re prying, Miss Endeavours.”

  “Just trying to get to know my instructor.”

  “Since the war.”

  “Really? You don’t look old enough.”

  “I was eighteen, attached to military intelligence. It was trial by fire back then. Had to learn quickly.”

  “Like I’m trying to now?”

  “Precisely. Bit more at stake back then.”

  “Where are you from?”

  He hesitated, then lowered his shoulders. “Salisbury, west of London. My father is a barrister.”

  “I think you know a lot about me. Why don’t you spill the beans?”

  “Right. Aubrey Endeavours. Born in Sacred, Michigan, in 1910. Mother died when you were twelve. Typhus, wasn’t it?”

  “It was.”

  “Terrible. Took an uncle of mine and more than one friend in the service. Your father served in the Army Air Service during the war. Distinguished, decorated. Cashiered out a colonel. I bet I know more about his military record than you do.”

  “Really? Do tell.”

  “Another time, perhaps. Where was I? You went to the Rockingham Girls’ Collegiate. You were asked to leave.”

  “Kicked out. That’s how we would put it in America.”

  “You caught the flying bug around that time. Learned to fly while working at a five-and-ten store.”

  “Jerking sodas, cleaning up. Whatever I could. Drove a coal truck one winter.”

  “Really? That was not in your file. Duly noted. You had the audacity to pick the Pulitzer cross-country air race as your first race. You came in third. You amazed the crowd when you pulled off your flying helmet and revealed that a woman had placed so well. Cheeky,” Hewitt said. “I don’t understand, though. Weren’t there races exclusively for women?”

  “There were. I wanted to fly with the boys.”

  “And a good showing you made, too. Your picture was in papers around the world, including here and in London.”

  “Those go into your files?”

  “That is the mark of a good intelligence agency, the backbone. A good and comprehensive set of files. Your country is just learning that. You’ve got a lot of catching up to do. What was all that silly nonsense about gentlemen not reading other gentlemen’s mail? Time your country grew up. We would have thought your involvement in the war, however brief, would have done that. Looks like it’s going to take another dust-up with the Germans to prove the point.”

  “And files are important to that?”

  “We take in everything. Our security service collects information for domestic matters, counter-intelligence and my section.”

  “And what is that, exactly?”

  They were fairly isolated in the restaurant, talking in English and keep their voices low. Not that it mattered what language they were speaking in. The opposition, as Hewitt Purnsley called them, could sprechen sie Englisch.

  “I’m with His Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service. Also known as MI6. We’re responsible for foreign intelligence gathering. I’m a case officer.”

  “Which means?”

  “I run agents.”

  “Like me.”

  He chuckled. “No, you’re not an agent. A courier, more like. One of ours being sent in. Mostly what I do is identify people on the other side of the fence who want to work for us. Sometimes for money, sometimes for other reasons. I help them out. Those are the spies, really.” He pushed his chair back. “Enough of this. I’m going to the facilities. We’ll start your next lesson when I get back.”

  Aubrey finished her Bordeaux; it was the most incredible wine she’d ever had. The waiter came over to clear their plates. She spoke to him in French, but he seemed uninterested in engaging her. Aubrey checked her watch. Hewitt Purnsley had been gone five minutes. Then it became ten. She stared down the short hallway that led to the Ladies and Gents, trying to will him to come out.

  She had used the facilities earlier, knew that the hallway led farther into the building, where she had seen stacks of wine cases. The waiter came over with the bill on a silver tray. She glanced at it: 180 Francs. She just might have enough on her. She opened her purse and felt her face flush. Her wallet was gone. She sat there another couple of minutes. The waiter came over again to see if the bill had been paid. It hadn’t, and he huffed and stuck his nose in the air.

  Finally, she got up and said in French, “I’m going to the ladies. I will settle up when I get back.” She took her purse—all it had in it was lipstick and compact—and went down the hallway. She knocked gently on the men’s door.

  “Hewitt, are you alright?”

  No answer. She pushed it open. It was single occupancy and it was empty. She looked nervously down the hallway. There were sounds emanating from the other end, men stacking wooden cases and shouting at each other. That was not a viable exit, at least not for her. He must have gone out that way, but how would she manage it?

  She went reluctantly back to her table. The waiter saw her and came over.

  “Is there a problem, mademoiselle?”

  “Yes. It seems my dinner companion has run off on me.”

  The waiter remained motionless, unempathetic.

  “And my wallet. I seem to have been robbed.”

  Since they’d sat down, no one had come near their table except their waiter. When she had visited the ladies’ room, she had taken her purse with her and remembered seeing the wallet next to her makeup. That could only mean that Hewitt had some how boosted it. But why? Then it clicked: this was the next lesson he’d spoken about. He was forcing her into an uncomfortable position again. But why? To see if she could talk her way out of it? Hardly. No, he was seeing how far she would go, if she would do something she would never have dreamed of before: pull a runner and make a dash for the door. She wouldn’t make it out the front door, she knew. The waiter and his co-worker would grab her.

  “I’m going to the ladies’; I will settle up when I get back. I don’t feel well. If I’m sick, that will determine the gratuity.” She didn’t run. The men in the back were still there, blocking her way.

  “The gratuity is already included, mademoiselle,” she heard the man say as she went into the ladies’ room again. With the door locked, she started running the water. There was a window up high near the ceiling. She hopped up onto the radiator, grabbed hold of the bar holding the window open and pulled herself up. Her feet scrabbled at the tiled wall. The door handle jiggled.

  “Mademoiselle. Are you okay?”

  “Not feeling well. I think it was the sole. I knew it had gone off.”

  The waiter spoke to someone else in French. She caught only part of it: ‘the window.’ He was sending someone around back to nab her. She had only seconds now. The window opened onto an alley. She pushed herself through head first and crashed down onto more wine crates. The noise she made sounded like gunfire on the Western Front, and she heard a shout from the street. The alley, thankfully, was not a dead end, and she ran off in the opposite direction, her purse flapping wildly against her back.

  She dashed out onto a busy street; horns blared as she went into the traffic. She looked back only once to see the waiter’s co-worker coming after her, but he bounced off the hood of a slow-moving omnibus and rolled to the ground. She crossed the street and slowed down, fixed her hair and tried to blend into the crowd on the sidewalk.
Half a mile up and away from the restaurant, she saw Hewitt Purnsley emerge from an alcove. He tipped his hat at her.

  “In here, in case they have the police after you.”

  She wasn’t mad, just a little flushed and out of breath. She ducked into the doorway and he closed it behind her.

  “You skinned your knee.”

  “I did?” She looked down. “Oh. Yes, I did.”

  He handed her a handkerchief and she pressed it against her knee.