The Secret Agent

by Elisabeth Hobbes

  ‘What is it you want me to collect?’

  Felix raised his brows. ‘There is a saying about curiosity and cats. You don’t need to know what it is. All you have to do is collect it.’

  ‘I don’t care what is inside,’ Sylvie lied. Of course she did; who wouldn’t? ‘I meant, is it something I would need a shopping basket for, for example, or can I slip it inside my pocket?’

  ‘That’s a fair point,’ Felix conceded. ‘You won’t need a shopping basket, unless you want to carry one so you don’t stand out. Can you do it tomorrow and bring the package here to me by six?’

  ‘Tell me where I need to go,’ Sylvie answered.

  Felix told her. ‘Can you remember that? Tell me.’

  ‘I go to the bakery two streets back from the Chateau of the Dukes of Brittany. When I am served, I order three brioche and ask if I can order a birthday cake for my aunt, Louise. When I pay I should drop my handbag. A man with wire-rimmed glasses will help me pick everything up, and that is when he will give me the package.’

  Felix looked impressed. ‘Well remembered. Is there anything else you would like to ask?’

  ‘The chateau is used as the German headquarters, isn’t it? Why is the exchange being made so close?’

  Felix gave a gentle laugh. ‘Mademoiselle Duchene, you cannot expect résistants to move addresses simply for your convenience. The bakery has been there for decades and has been a safe location since the start of the occupation.’

  Sylvie gave him a brittle smile. He was so damned condescending at times. ‘I’ll have it for you by tomorrow night.’

  The song on the gramophone was coming to an end. Sylvie picked up her drink and walked to the stage.

  ‘Mademoiselle Duchene?’

  She stifled a sigh of annoyance and looked back, rolling her eyes and not bothering to hide her annoyance.

  ‘Yes? Did you forget something?’

  Felix tipped his head to one side. ‘Only to wish you good luck.’

  Sylvie blinked. She hadn’t been expecting that.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said grudgingly. She held his gaze for a moment and a chill raced up and down her back. She shrugged it off and left.

  Chapter Eleven

  Rouen

  1932

  ‘All of them leave.’

  Angelique wobbled her way to the windowsill where she kept a bottle of English gin, one hand on her lower belly. ‘Men will use you.’

  She uncorked the bottle and lifted it, then seemed to change her mind and put it down. Sylvie laid down her book. She stared out of the window over the rooftops of Rouen to the ugly cathedral that stood forbidding grey against an insipid grey sky. Winter was her least favourite time of year.

  She could point out that Angelique had never minded the jewellery or bonbons. Each new city still meant a new lover for Angelique, but Sylvie had long since grown bored with the men who came and went. When she had been younger, she had enjoyed the gifts and excursions that she had been included in, but these had gradually stopped. No man wanted an awkward girl of thirteen watching while he tried to kiss her mother.

  She moved the gin bottle out of Angelique’s reach. It was only ten in the morning and it was far too early to drink anything besides coffee, but Angelique was not well. She put on a brave face but spent most of the day in their rented room, leaving Sylvie to shop and cook before they both went to the theatre to perform.

  ‘I didn’t really love them,’ Angelique said. ‘I tried to, or pretended to, but I believe your father was the only man I truly loved.’

  ‘Please will you tell me about him,’ Sylvie asked. She’d begged so many times over the years and didn’t really expect the answer to be any different, but Angelique gave her a watery smile.

  ‘I should, shouldn’t I? Because, well…’

  Angelique walked back to the bed and lay down. She reached for the smaller bottle that the pharmacist had given her. She was supposed to measure a spoonful, but, recently, Sylvie had seen her drinking straight from the bottle as she did now. She was trying her best to ignore the worm of anxiety that wriggled in her belly.

  ‘Your father is English. He was not married when we met, but he was engaged to a woman in England.’

  Sylvie felt the blood drain from her legs, leaving her unable to support herself. She found the stool beside the bed and sat before she fell.

  ‘You knew and you still went to bed with him?’ Sylvie wrinkled her nose in disgust. Why should she be surprised? Angelique had been with so many men over the years that Sylvie had lost count.

  ‘It was wartime. People behaved differently. Morals were relaxed. We knew straightaway we were meant to be together. We decided it was better to love for a short time than never. I cared for him very dearly, and he loved me too.’

  Sylvie chewed her fingernail. It was hardly a rare story. A man and woman thrown together, resulting in a child.

  ‘Does he know about me?’

  ‘Even I did not know about you when he returned to England.’ Angelique reached up and patted Sylvie’s knee. ‘You are the only thing of value a man has ever given me, ma chérie. The thing I treasure above all else, and you’re growing up so fast. You’re almost a woman.’

  Sylvie wriggled awkwardly. She was a woman, if the red stain on her underwear was anything to go by. She hadn’t bothered Angelique with that information but thanked her lucky stars she was surrounded by a host of other women to help her.

  ‘I’ll make you some coffee. Then I’m going for a walk. Alone. I want to think about everything.’

  ‘Make better choices than I have, ma petite,’ Angelique said. ‘Once your heart is broken, it is not easily repaired, and each new break is bigger. If you are going to let a man use you, make sure there is some advantage to you too.’

  ‘I won’t let anyone use me,’ Sylvie assured her.

  She’d been kissed on more than one occasion but hadn’t loved any of the men. She had enjoyed the way her body had seemed to ripple with delight, but it hardly seemed enough of a reward to risk heartbreak or ruin. She couldn’t imagine a man so wonderful that he could make her change her mind.

  Nantes, France

  1944

  The queue was out of the boulangerie door when Sylvie joined it. When she finally neared the front of the line, she discovered that this was because the shopkeeper insisted on carrying out a lengthy conversation with each customer. If the bakery had been there for decades, the owner seemed equally ancient.

  She was about to pass through the door when three German soldiers pushed past Sylvie, walking straight to the counter.

  ‘What do you have today, Frau Vallons?’

  The woman who had been about to be served pulled her children to one side, hushing their protests. Everyone else ignored the intrusion, suggesting it was familiar, but Sylvie was outraged. She reined in her temper, not wanting to draw attention to herself, and waited patiently. As the three men left, one of them stopped beside Sylvie.

  ‘Fräulein Dancer! What a surprise to see you. Do you live in this area?’

  It was the young German who had intervened on the night Felix had accosted her. How could she have been recognised on her first mission!

  ‘I like to walk to keep fit for dancing,’ she answered. ‘I don’t know this part of the city, but I saw the boulangerie and stopped for breakfast.’

  She was glad she had dressed in a plain skirt and sensible, flat shoes as they added veritas to her tale. She was conscious of the eyes of everyone in the queue on her.

  The officer held his paper bag up. ‘It’s a good bakery. The cakes remind me of ones my Oma used to bake.’

  Despite her anxiety, Sylvie smiled. In one sentence, the enemy had become a human being with a grandmother who baked cakes. Fortunately, she was spared from further conversation by the queue shuffling forward. She gave a nervous smile and moved along a little.

  ‘It was nice to speak with you, fräulein.’

  The German left to catch up with his friends. The
man in the queue behind Sylvie coughed and glared at her. Being on speaking terms with a German clearly branded her a collaborator in his eyes. If only he knew the truth.

  After that unfortunate start, the rest of the mission went smoothly. Madame Vallons was apologetic; it would not be possible to bake a birthday cake at such short notice. Sylvie’s aunt would have to understand. Sylvie knocked her bag off the counter, scattering loose coins, lipstick and handkerchiefs everywhere. She knelt to pick them up. As she reached for the silver compact that had been a gift from Major Buckmaster, she felt something pushed into her hand. The delivery boy who had been sitting on a wooden stool was a young man with wire-rimmed glasses pushed high on his nose. He seemed very young to be involved in covert activities.

  ‘You forgot this, mademoiselle,’ he said.

  ‘How silly of me. Thank you,’ Sylvie replied. She pushed the packet down into the bottom of her bag, picked up her paper bag of brioche and left. She crossed the road and walked a short distance before leaning against the wall in relief. She took a bite out of one of the brioche, hoping it would calm the butterflies in her stomach. It was good, and she sighed with approval.

  ‘Es schmeckt gut?’

  Sylvie almost choked to hear her thoughts echoed aloud. It was the German again.

  ‘Excuse me. I didn’t mean to startle you,’ he said.

  ‘Are you following me?’ A chill raced down Sylvie’s spine, perspiration pooling in her armpits and lower back.

  ‘Not at all, fräulein,’ he said. ‘That is, I was watching out for you leaving.’

  Sylvie’s heart began to thump double-speed. ‘Why?’

  ‘Not for any reason other than I wanted to confirm you suffered no further ill on Friday night. I wish you had let me take you home. I mean, escort you home. My French is still not good.’

  ‘I am perfectly well,’ Sylvie answered, adding as an afterthought, ‘but thank you for your concern.’

  His face broke into a smile, and he stood more at ease. He had the ice-blue eyes and blonde hair so prized by the Führer but he looked roughly Sylvie’s age, with an earnest look completely free of guile. The overall effect was of an eager schoolboy. Perhaps he was speaking the truth and he was simply concerned for her.

  ‘There was another reason … I hoped to see you again,’ the German continued. ‘I wondered if you might like some company. I am off duty until midday, and I know a little of the city. I, too, enjoy exploring.’

  Her instinct was to decline, but if she refused his company, it might raise his suspicion. Felix’s package was scarcely bigger than a box of cigarettes, but simply knowing she had it in her bag made Sylvie uneasy. She might be walking into a trap. She tried not to look too obviously at his uniform as she tried to detect his role. A small MV pin on his collar meant Militärverwaltung. Military administration.

  ‘My name is Verwaltungs-Sekretar Baumann.’ He watched as her lips tried to form the rank, then grinned. ‘Please, call me Dieter.’

  She had been right; the lengthy title marked him as a secretary. He did the paperwork in an office rather than any fighting.

  ‘Sylvie Duchene,’ she replied. ‘I can only spare a short while, but I’d like to walk with you.’

  He seemed genuinely pleased and held out an arm for her to take. Sylvie gave a small shake of the head, and he dropped it, seemingly taking no offence. Side by side they strolled through the old streets to the Passage Pommeraye. The covered arcade would once have been full of high-end shops where women browsed for gloves and bonbons. Now the boutiques were neglected and windows were boarded up or empty of glass. They walked back through the Place Royale, stopping by the ornate fountain that had somehow miraculously escaped destruction when the Allies had bombed the city.

  Sylvie sighed. ‘It looks so sad.’

  ‘When the war is ended, Germany will rebuild,’ the German assured her. ‘The Führer loves France and her people. The Allied forces will see they cannot prevail.’

  His voice was confident. Sylvie winced, unsure that the Allies would ever surrender to Germany. She would not be here unless they were planning to resist and free Europe from Hitler’s grasp. She wondered again what she was carrying in her bag and felt a rush of pride at the small, insignificant part she was playing.

  The German – Sylvie found it hard to think of his name even in her head – was an interesting guide, displaying his knowledge of the city without boasting, and for a time, Sylvie forgot she was in the company of her enemy. It was only when they emerged in front of the imposing medieval fortress of the Chateau of the Dukes of Brittany that it struck home.

  The castle had been built to inspire awe and demonstrate the power of its owners. It still managed to fulfil that admirably, even when the walls and turrets were adorned with the flag of the new occupiers. The drawbridge was guarded and soldiers were stationed along the battlements at regular intervals. Seeing the flag and men sent a shiver of hatred through Sylvie. That sensation was immediately followed by dread that she had been tricked and would soon disappear within those walls, never to be seen again.

  ‘Isn’t it magnificent?’ the German said. ‘I come from a small town in the foothills of mountains, and we have nothing so large or old. Can you imagine the lives that were lived there?’

  Sylvie shook her head in wonder. Hundreds of years. It was too long to comprehend. How had the citizens of Nantes felt when other enemies had assailed them? Did they bow down or fight?

  The original medieval buildings had been added to later in the castle’s history. High, white buildings that looked a couple of centuries old stood inside the outer walls. The German pointed at the large building facing into the courtyard.

  ‘I work in that room.’ He indicated a small window on the second floor. Sylvie felt a small flicker of relief in her belly that at least he did not work in the dungeons, which she imagined to be home to the Gestapo.

  ‘What do you do?’ Sylvie asked

  ‘I assist with transportation arrangements for men returning home and workers going to Germany. Sometimes I examine the letters that the soldiers send back to their families to make sure that none of them are accidentally giving away information that could be of use to our enemies if they were intercepted. My work is very dull.’

  Sylvie’s scalp prickled. He might describe it as boring, but it seemed to be precisely the sort of information that SOE might be interested in knowing.

  ‘So you learn their secrets? Who is having a secret romance and lying to his girl back home about being faithful?’

  ‘Mostly the letters are very mundane. Men ask for news of their families or reassure their mothers they are well. Occasionally, they boast about outsmarting the Resistance or defeating the Allied forces, so I must censor those even though they are made-up. But yes, sometimes I read declarations of love from men I know have lost their wages to the brothels or have a French mistress.’ He frowned. ‘It isn’t principled or kind. They will return to their homes and what will become of the women and their children here in France?’

  Sylvie was about to say something scathing, then considered his words. Her mother had been a French mistress to Sylvie’s English father. Angelique had always sworn that the love affair between her and Arthur Crichton had been mutual and intensely passionate. Her father had not abandoned Angelique or Sylvie financially, when he could easily have done; he’d sent money, despite having a wife in England to support. She felt a little quiver of shame that she had been so resentful of him. She was aware she’d retreated into her memories and was ignoring the German.

  ‘Who reads your letters?’ she asked, giving a little laugh.

  ‘I’m not sure. Not that I have anyone back home to declare my love to.’

  He held her gaze for a moment, then his cheeks grew slightly pink in a very endearing manner. A slight shiver passed over Sylvie; just a murmur, but enough to alert her that whatever opinion her mind might have of the German standing in front of her, her body was seeing only a man. A warm breeze caught h
er cheeks, lifting the hairs at the back of her neck that had strayed from her chignon. She pushed them back into the net, thinking how long it had been since other fingers had stroked her flesh with tenderness and passion.

  ‘The weather has suddenly changed,’ the German observed. ‘It was cold at night until recently. Nantes is nice in the summer. When the war is won, this will be a pleasant place, I think.’

  When the war is won. Of course he did not entertain the thought of defeat. How pleasant it would be for anyone French was entirely a different matter, however idealistic he sounded. Sylvie kept the thought to herself.

  ‘How long have you been here?’ she asked.

  ‘I arrived in October 1942,’ he said. ‘Feldkommandant Hotz was assassinated the year before that and the new commander requested new staff.’

  Assassination? Why didn’t she know about this?

  ‘I didn’t hear of that.’

  The German looked at her and Sylvie wondered if she had blundered. Was it something every man, woman and child in France knew?

  ‘I was living in Tregastel with my grand-mère then. It is a small village and she did not approve of newspapers or a radio. We missed a lot of what happened in the early days.’

  ‘It was a dark time,’ the German explained. ‘I understand his murder was unpopular even among the Nantais. Forty-eight men were executed in retaliation. Communists and socialists; troublemakers. Now things are more settled. There are no uprisings and the streets are safer to walk.’

  Sylvie bowed her head. Forty-eight lives for one. A signal to all that the Germans were in control.

  ‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘I was very tired last night after the performance, so I want to take a nap before this evening.’