‘Excellent. We wish you to listen to the radio at pre-arranged times on these frequencies. Rachel.’ Rachel gave Pierre the slip of paper. ‘That too must be memorized and destroyed,’ James said. ‘The calls will come from this office and be made by either Rachel or myself, but although you may recognize our voices, they must always be accompanied by the password.’ Pierre nodded. ‘As I must use the word when I call you.’
‘You must also use your number: GW1.’ Pierre raised his eyebrows, and James grinned. ‘Gruchy wine, right?’
‘I see. Do I use English?’
‘You are not to call us, except in the most dire emergency. The Germans will be able to trace such calls if they are too frequent or they are given sufficient time. If you have to call, yes, use English. But you must never use any name save Sterling.’
‘But how do I get my information to you?’
‘By courier. She will contact you. In about five weeks’ time.’
‘Did you say she?’
‘Yes. I am going to break a rule here, Pierre, but I think it is necessary, because I don’t want you to be so surprised that you may say, or do, something stupid. Your courier will be Joanna Jonsson.’
Slowly Pierre put down his cup. ‘You will have to explain this.’
‘Briefly, she came to England and volunteered.’
‘Just like that?’
‘We didn’t inquire into her motives,’ James lied.
‘And you accepted her? My dear James, she is an absolute fly-by-night. She can no more keep a secret than she can fly to the moon.’
‘We accepted her because she is a natural. She can come and go from occupied Europe without hindrance. As for keeping a secret, she is being trained now.’
‘Does she know I am her contact?’
‘No. She won’t know that until she has completed her training and is ready to go into the field. Now listen. The information you give her will be in cypher. She is to bring it here, not understand it. Rachel.’
Rachel produced the book and a map. James unfolded the map.
‘This grid covers all of France, including Vichy. When you wish to indicate any area, you just quote the cross-reference. The only matching grid in existence is in this office. It goes without saying that that book and that map are now your most valuable possessions. If at any time you feel you can no longer carry on, they must be destroyed. Hopefully you will be able to let us know you are doing this.’
Pierre placed the documents in his pocket. ‘You mean I must do this if I am in danger of arrest by the Gestapo.’
‘I’m afraid it is a possibility that must be considered. Should it happen, or should we ever suspect that it is likely to happen, the code and the map will immediately be replaced by a fresh set.’
‘And if it turns out to be a false alarm?’
‘The new material will be brought to you as rapidly as possible, by courier.’
‘By Joanna, you mean.’ He shook his head. ‘I still don’t like the idea of using her. How did she get to England, anyway?’
‘As I said, as a wealthy neutral she can come and go as she pleases.’
‘But she was with Liane. Did they get safely back to Paris? Did she have any news of the rest of the family?’
‘No,’ James lied again. ‘Only that your mother and father are back in Paulliac.’
‘Yes. Well...’ He stood up. ‘I will say goodbye, and hope that you are right in your judgement. Mademoiselle, it has been a pleasure.’ He closed the door behind himself.
‘What a handsome man,’ Rachel remarked.
‘You should see his sisters.’
‘And they are all friends of yours? Aren’t you the least bit worried about what may be going to happen to them?’
‘What I would like you to do,’ James said, ‘is take this five-pound note, go out, and buy a bottle of scotch. Then bring it back here, and you and I are going to get drunk together.’
*
The sound of the doorbell awoke Liane de Gruchy. She had spent most of the past month in bed, and a good proportion of that asleep; she supposed the most important part of her life had been the bottle of sleeping pills that she kept always within reach.
She had only got up to prepare her meals, and once a week go to the bank, draw some money, and buy some food. For all that time she had not been in contact with her family; but she had called, once, at the Paris office, and old Henri Brissard, the manager, had told her they were all right and had gone down to Paulliac. At least, some of them. He had told her that Amalie, after a spell with her in-laws in Dieppe, had also joined the family in Paulliac. This was undoubtedly because both Henri and Pierre had gone missing after the rout of the French and British armies in the north. Poor Henri, poor Pierre. If they weren’t dead they were prisoners of war.
Although she had not asked him to do so, she had no doubt that Brissard had informed her parents that she was all right, and the fact that her allowance was still deposited as regularly as always told her that the business also had to be all right. She knew she should obtain the necessary permits and go down to Paulliac. But she kept telling herself that could wait. She refused to accept that she might be suffering a prolonged nervous breakdown, perhaps the more prolonged because it had been delayed until she had returned to Paris. She had thought that of Joanna, but Joanna was far away by now, either in the States or Sweden, clear of anyone who could be associated with their ordeal. Perhaps she should have gone with her, after all.
But that would have meant abandoning everything she valued in life, every precious item that was here in her flat with her. Moreover, as Joanna had appeared determined to publicize what had happened, it would have meant reliving those horrible two days, over and over again, to slavering, prurient officials and newsmen. That was unacceptable.
But it was even more unacceptable to face her own family right now. Papa would be utterly bewildered, because emotional matters always bewildered him. Mama would be angry, because mishaps overtaking her children always made her angry — and in her anger she might well do something stupid. Pierre, if he was alive, would be critical, because Pierre was always critical — of her, at least. Madeleine would be shocked, but at the same time, curious, because Madeleine was always curious about things she had not yet experienced — she kept begging her to tell her what it was like to have sex with a man. And Amalie, so innocent in her love for her husband, would burst into tears. She did not feel she could face any of that at this moment.
So she was waiting. She did not know for what. But she felt she would know when the moment arrived, the day when she felt ready to face the world. Until then, here in her flat, she had her own private world, with no intruders. Until now.
She got out of bed, put on a dressing gown — in the July heat she was naked — and went into the lounge. She stood against the door. ‘Who is it?’
‘A friend, Mademoiselle de Gruchy.’
Liane frowned. The voice was familiar, but it was not French. ‘Identify yourself.’
‘I am from Chartres. I have news for you.’
Liane slipped the bolt, opened the door, and gazed at Werner Biedermann. For a moment she did not recognize him, because he wore civilian clothes, and her memory totally associated him with his black uniform. Then she tried to close the door again, but his foot was in the way, and a heave of his shoulder sent her staggering backwards across the room; she needed both her hands to keep her dressing gown closed.
Biedermann came into the lounge and closed the door behind himself, carefully slipping the bolt. ‘What an entrancing sight you are, mademoiselle.’
‘Get out,’ Liane said.
Biedermann took off his hat and coat, laid them on a chair. ‘That is not very hospitable of you. Do you not wish to know what I have to say to you? It concerns your family.’
‘Then say it, and leave.’
‘You are so brusque. Will you not offer me a drink? Cognac. I should like a glass of cognac.’
Liane stared at him for sever
al seconds. Her brain was a jumble of conflicting emotions, of which hatred predominated. But she knew she had to keep herself under control. This man held all the high cards. Besides, he might have something of interest to tell her. She went to the sideboard and poured, gave him the glass, feeling his gaze scorching her legs as they slipped in and out beneath the dressing gown.
‘Aren’t you going to join me?’ he asked.
‘I do not drink at four o’clock in the afternoon. Perhaps later. If you will excuse me, I will get dressed.’
‘But I like you the way you are, mademoiselle. Liane. You do not mind if I call you Liane?’
Liane shrugged. ‘It is my name.’
‘So, sit down, Liane.’
Liane hesitated, then sat in a chair on the other side of the room, keeping her knees pressed together.
‘So,’ Biedermann went on, ‘if I give you some information about your family, you can give me some information on other matters.’
‘What other matters? I have not left this flat for more than an hour at a time for the past month. I am sure you know that, Herr Captain.’
‘I do, but that is not to say you do not have information. You are, or were, a friend of the prefect of Chartres, were you not?’
‘Monsieur Moulin is a friend of my family, yes.’
‘So much of a friend that he was willing to sacrifice himself for the sake of your reputation.’
Liane frowned. ‘I do not understand you.’
‘Well, you see, we approached him a week ago, and invited his cooperation. In view of the absurd accusations made by you and your American friend, we felt it would be best for all concerned if he were to issue a statement, made as an old friend of you and your family, that you, and she, were two mentally unstable young women whose claims could hardly be taken seriously. Do you know, he refused to do this.’
‘Of course he would. He is an honourable man.’
‘He is a very stupid man.’
‘What have you done to him?’
‘Well, we felt that he could be persuaded to change his mind, so we took him into custody.’
‘You are a bastard. You are all bastards.’
Biedermann smiled. ‘Do you know, he used that word as well. Only he screamed it as we crushed his testicles.’ Liane gasped. ‘Unfortunately,’ Biedermann continued, ‘when locked in his cell he was stupidly given a sharp knife with his evening meal, and this he used to cut his throat.’
‘Jean is dead?’ Liane’s voice was high.
‘Oh, we got to him in time. But he had to be placed in hospital to be stitched up. And do you know, he managed to escape.’ Liane clapped her hands. ‘I am glad you are pleased, mademoiselle. I would like you to remain pleased. So tell me, where is he now?’
‘You expect me to know this?’
‘For the moment he has disappeared. As all of this, all of the torment he has suffered, is on account of you, it seems obvious that he would come to you for help, or at least contact you.’
‘Well he has not.’
‘Again it is obvious that you would say that. Would you like me to take you down to headquarters? I, and my men, would find that most enjoyable. Of course I understand that you have no testicles to crush, but I am sure we will find many interesting bits of you to, shall I say, handle.’ Liane felt her chest constricting even as her heart pounded violently. Her emotion was less fear than an almost convulsive anger at what this thug had done to Jean Moulin and was now threatening to do to her, all with the complete blessing of the law... Nazi law. ‘Perhaps your sister has told you what it is like to be interrogated by the Gestapo,’ Biedermann suggested. Liane’s head jerked. ‘You have arrested my sister?’
‘Did you not know? Oh, yes, she spent a couple of days in our custody. What a pretty child.’
‘You...’ Liane felt as if she was going to choke, but kept her voice under control with an effort. ‘I have two sisters,’ she said in a low tone.
‘Of course you do. This was the younger one. The would - be Jewess. Did you not know of it?’
‘You arrested Amalie? What crime can she possibly have committed?’
‘A very serious crime. She struck a Gestapo officer on the head, so hard as to put him in hospital.’
‘Amalie did that?’ Liane had a strong temptation to clap again. ‘What has happened to her?’
‘She should have been executed. But your other sister appears to have some influence, and she was released without charge. It was very regrettable. Still, we left our mark upon her. I do not think she will ever be the same.’
‘You are unspeakable,’ Liane said, even as her brain went off into another spin. He had said that Madeleine had influence? How could Madeleine have any influence, except possibly with Jean, and if Jean was a fugitive, how could he have helped? But Amalie, sweet, innocent Amalie, in the hands of these brutes... Even her sometimes lurid imagination could take her no further.
‘We have an eye for a pretty face,’ Biedermann agreed. ‘And even more, a handsome figure.’ He allowed his gaze, slowly and deliberately, to roam up and down Liane’s body; she hugged the dressing gown tighter. ‘And in the case of someone who has aided and abetted the escape of a wanted enemy of the Reich, I do not think even a Wehrmacht officer would dare interfere.’
A Wehrmacht officer had helped Amalie, because of Madeleine? Madeleine knew no German officers. And in any event, she was in love with James Barron. But that was a question for the future. She had first to survive the present. ‘I have told you that I have not seen or helped Monsieur Moulin in any way. I did not even know he had been arrested until you told me just now.’
‘But how do we know what you have claimed is true? How can we know until we have investigated further, investigated you more closely?’
Liane stood up. ‘I wish to telephone my lawyer.’
‘We do not deal through lawyers, mademoiselle. However, it may be possible for me to assist you. If you were to cooperate with me, fully and in every way, I could perhaps consider allowing you to remain here, in your flat, under house arrest, while I, by conversation, you understand, endeavour to ascertain the truth of the matter.’ Liane stared at him, now scarcely breathing. ‘I see that you understand. So, take off your dressing gown.’
Liane drew a deep breath and let the dressing gown slip from her shoulders. She remembered that in Auchamps she had reflected that women only triumphed over men by a combination of beauty, charm and mystery. Never force, because they could not compete in terms of physical force. But for her, only physical force was left, whatever the consequences. Force, combined with beauty and charm.
‘Exquisite,’ Biedermann said. ‘To have you strapped to a frame while I applied electric charges to the most, shall I say, succulent parts of your body would be an unforgettable experience. But I am sure you are capable of providing some other unforgettable experiences first. Come here.’
‘I would be better in bed,’ Liane said in a low voice.
‘Ha ha. I like that. Yes, it would be better in bed. I am sure you have a magnificent bed.’ He stood up, followed her into the bedroom, undressing as he did so. He left his jacket on the chair, exposing his shoulder holster, which he now removed and draped over it. But she could not use the gun here; everyone in the building would hear the sound of the shot.
She went to the bedside table, her back to him, and expertly palmed the little bottle of sleeping tablets. Then she felt him behind her, his hands coming round her waist and then up to hold her breasts while his mouth nuzzled her neck, actually sucking her hair. ‘Would you not like another glass of cognac?’ she asked.
‘If you will join me.’
‘Get into bed.’ She went into the lounge, looked around herself. She was, after all, abandoning her treasures. She sighed, filled two goblets and dissolved four of the tablets in one of them; a single tablet was sufficient to put her out for the night. Then she returned to the bedroom and sat beside him. ‘Here is to an interesting future.’
They touch
ed glasses and he drank deeply, as did she. ‘This is excellent brandy,’ he commented. ‘Such a distinctive taste.’
‘It is made in our own vats,’ she said. ‘Would you like me to order some for you?’
‘I would like that, yes.’
Liane finished her drink, and he did the same, then he lay back, arms outstretched. She climbed on to the bed beside him.
My last ever fuck, she thought. What a shame it is that he has to die happy.
Six
The Fugitive
‘Pierre?’ Madeleine stared at her brother. ‘Oh, Pierre.’ She ran down the steps of the huge, rambling Gruchy mansion, situated on the banks of the Gironde several miles west of Paulliac, and threw her arms round the neck of the man who had just emerged from the trees that bordered the river. She was followed by three Alsatian dogs, all barking delightedly. ‘But... what has happened to you? Where have you been?’ He kissed her again. ‘Nothing has happened to me, save that I have lost weight. As to where I have been, that is a long story.’
‘But those clothes... They look as if they have come off a scarecrow.’
‘Who knows. Perhaps they did.’
‘You poor boy. Let me take your rucksack.’
‘I can manage. It would be too heavy for you anyway.’
It was certainly very large. Madeleine held his hand as they went up the steps. ‘Mama!’ she shouted. ‘Pierre is home.’ Barbara de Gruchy came out of the doorway. ‘Pierre. Oh, my God, Pierre.’ She hugged her son while tears streamed down her cheeks. ‘Jules!’ she shouted at a gardener who had appeared. ‘Get on your bicycle and ride to the combine. Tell Monsieur Albert that Pierre is home. Come inside, come inside. You look as if you could do with a square meal.’
‘And a hot bath,’ Madeleine said, wrinkling her nose. ‘Amalie! Amalie! Look who’s here.’
They were in the entry hall, and Amalie was standing on the grand staircase. ‘Where is Henri?’ she asked.
‘Henri? I do not know where he is.’
‘You were with him in the battle. Was he killed?’
‘He was not killed in the battle. We were together afterwards. But then we became separated. I imagine he went to Dieppe, just as I have been making my way here.’
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