The Secret Agent

by Elisabeth Hobbes

  ‘Who is getting suspicious?’ he asked.

  ‘I feel like everyone is watching me. Emily just found me crying and looks at me strangely whenever I talk to you. I don’t know whether it is because she suspects what I’m doing and plans to inform the milice or whether she has feelings for you.’

  To her surprise, Felix laughed.

  ‘I can tell you now Emily would never inform the milice of anything. If she is watching you, it is because she is my sister and thinks I need protecting from fearsome women.’

  ‘Your sister?’ Sylvie sat up and stared at him.

  Felix laughed again.

  ‘My half-sister, I should say. We share our mother. My father died in the first year of the Great War, when I was five, and my mother remarried a year after it ended. So yes, Emily cares for me, but not in the way you are thinking of.’

  A dead father and a remarriage. It definitely explained Emily’s interest in Felix’s dealings with women, and, perhaps, some of Felix’s surliness.

  ‘My mother died when I was fourteen. My father was already married, so it is not quite the same, but it hurt me. Was that what made you so angry, having your father replaced?’ Sylvie asked.

  ‘Not in itself. My stepfather is very wealthy – he owns factories along the river. Of course, now they have been requisitioned by the Germans, but before the war they produced canned fish. He wanted me to work my way up to become a partner in the canning business. I could not think of a worse life than sitting in an office dealing with orders and supplies. We clashed as I grew up. On politics, religion. On everything.’

  He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. She gave him a slight smile, silently urging him on.

  ‘When I was thirteen, I had a bad bout of influenza and spent months convalescing, unable to leave my room. It gave me the time to practise music. As soon as I was old enough, I left home and decided to use my music to earn my living. I joined the zazou movement – listening to swing and jazz in underground clubs, learning to play, making connections. Choosing to live in attics and garrets with Jewish and black musicians and other “morally questionable types” that society deplored.’

  His voice became mocking, and Sylvie wondered which of his parents had called them that.

  ‘Your stepfather disapproved?’

  ‘And my mother. She could not understand it. I was a rich man’s son now, with the prospect of a secure job, so why I would ever want to be otherwise? But I never forgot how we had lived before, in a modest set of rooms among working people. The sort of people who work on the production line for her husband, earning a fraction of his profits. Sometimes I wonder if my principles were created entirely to oppose my stepfather’s. How much do we choose our paths to spite our parents?’

  Sylvie chewed her fingernail thoughtfully. She’d embraced the chance to return to France, not to spite Arthur and Maud, but in spite of them. Felix rolled onto his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows. Sylvie did the same and they lay side by side, the lengths of their body touching. Felix dropped his head so that his hair flopped over his face, concealing it.

  ‘As Bernard said, when Germany invaded France, my stepfather favoured appeasement and I did not.’

  Something slotted into place like a piece of a jigsaw Sylvie hadn’t known was missing.

  ‘Does the factory we are intending to blow up belong to your stepfather?’

  He smiled grimly. ‘I’m the one who put Bernard in touch with the contacts he needed. Not such a good stepson, but hopefully a better patriot.’

  ‘Emily told me you don’t believe in what the Resistance do.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve told her. I don’t want her thinking I’m involved and letting something slip to my mother. It would break her heart to think I was putting myself in danger. Emily’s too. Even though she’s younger, she likes to cosset me. I think she tries to make sure I don’t fall prey to a scarlet woman who will break my heart. I hope she doesn’t work out the truth that I’ve become even more active than I was before.’

  ‘Why have you become more active again?’ Sylvie asked.

  ‘It feels right. Seeing how bravely you go about your work made me reconsider.’ He gave a half-laugh and looked at her side on. ‘I don’t know what you did before you came to France, but you left the life you had and the people you loved and threw yourself into the unknown. When I sent you to fetch my cigarettes and you accused me of playing games, it struck me harder than I expected. I think it is called a conscience.’

  ‘Oh!’ Sylvie smoothed her hair down, feeling flustered at his words. ‘I didn’t intend for that to happen. There wasn’t much to give up. It was a bit of a rash decision if I’m completely honest. My lover ended our relationship and it meant I had to leave my job. I didn’t really have many other options.’

  It sounded pathetic. She should have rushed to defend France as soon as war was declared. Even what little she had done in England had been sorely lacking in patriotism. She had made up for it since, she hoped.

  She took Felix’s hand, and he linked his fingers through hers. Long and shapely. They couldn’t belong to anyone other than a musician. A warm rush coursed through her as she remembered him touching her so intimately.

  ‘I, too, had lost my way and needed reminding that France needed me. I suppose I could say that it was a man who set me on the path towards SOE.’

  ‘Then I should thank him for putting you on the path towards me, chérie,’ Felix said. He put a finger under her chin and tilted her head up, looking deeply into her eyes. ‘Even if he was clearly not an expert at pleasing you.’

  ‘I never said he wasn’t.’

  ‘I deduced it myself.’

  Felix took hold of her leg and unbuckled her shoe, tossing it onto the floor. He kept hold of her foot and ran his thumbnail along the underside. Sylvie squeaked in surprise. It tickled, but delightfully so.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘You have such elegant feet.’

  He began to massage it, and Sylvie moaned with pleasure. ‘That feels so good. I’ve walked far too much and dancing every night is not good for them. Don’t stop.’

  She lay back and closed her eyes.

  ‘No one has ever done this before,’ she purred.

  ‘I told you your lovers were incompetent,’ Felix replied. ‘Open your eyes, chérie. I want to see you watching me.’

  She obeyed, feeling his fingers working in firm circles on her instep and stroking her ankles, taking each toe in turn. His touch was so intimate and methodical, she was surprised to feel herself becoming aroused. His smile widened, and she realised he was aware of the effect he was having. He knelt at the bottom of the bed and began to move his hands further up her legs. He kneaded and stroked, fingers moving further and further up, all the time fixing her with his gaze.

  His hands disappeared beneath her skirt to the top of her stockings, further up to her knickers. He wriggled his thumb beneath the silk and ran it over the crease of her thigh before moving it to the soft mound of hair. He eased her legs further apart and smiled, wolfish and devilishly attractive, and knelt between her knees. He ran his tongue slowly over his lips suggestively.

  ‘Did your lover do this?’ he asked.

  Sylvie shivered with lust. Surely he didn’t mean to put his tongue where his fingers were currently exploring? She shook her head. If she tried to speak, she was sure all that would emerge was a stream of nonsense.

  ‘In that case, let me introduce you to the perfect way to take your mind off your troubles…’

  Felix was right.

  What he did to her – what they did together – rid Sylvie of all capability of coherent thought. Afterwards, she lay spread-eagled, limbs growing heavy and peace settling over her. Felix lay at her side, arm drooped casually over her waist.

  ‘As much as I would love to stay here and make love to you, it’s my turn to cook tonight so I should make myself presentable. If you want to stay here and rest for a little while, you are most welco
me.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My room is yours whenever you need it. So am I,’ Felix said and kissed her lightly on the temple.

  She felt his weight lift off the bed and heard him moving around the room, humming a sad melancholy tune as he brushed his teeth and changed into a fresh shirt.

  Her eyes began to droop shut, and when she woke she was alone with Felix’s bedspread tucked over her. It was a small but kind gesture. She buried her face in it, inhaling the scent of his cologne, then climbed out of bed and adjusted her clothes.

  Another room with a temporary promise. It seemed that was all life intended to offer her, but she didn’t mind. While Felix was happy to have her, she was happy to be with him.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  As Marcel had warned, there were increased airdrops from the RAF. Again, Sylvie found herself cycling at top speed to a location out of the city once Mirabelle had closed. Then there was the race to retrieve and divide the contents before their presence was detected, working almost silently in the company of others, united by their common aim. She didn’t recognise any of the faces, and the pang of sadness at not knowing who had lived or died on the previous drop caught her unawares.

  The men and women shook hands, nodding to each other in respect at a task well done before vanishing into the darkness back to wherever they had come from. Whatever was being planned had to succeed.

  Sylvie delivered her parcels to Tomas at first light. He would send them out as smaller deliveries wrapped in butcher’s paper and hidden among shopping. Some, Sylvie would deliver in person. By now, she was confident enough to walk past the patrols of Germans and even smile at them, while in her bag, beneath the makeup and shopping, was enough plastic explosive to blow them all to pieces. Tomas had apparently decided Sylvie was trustworthy and forgiven her for allowing Dieter into the club because when she handed over the parcel, he patted her on the hand, asked her to give his regards to Antoine and sent her away with a Toulouse sausage that he took no payment for.

  She took it to the club and shared it with Felix, frying it over a gas ring and eating it in his bed. As the morning sun passed overhead, she caught up on missed sleep while he read or hummed compositions. They spent the afternoon lazily making love, talking and dancing to the strains of the records that crept through the floorboards from Antoine’s rooms beneath. In years to come, Sylvie would remember it as a day of perfect peace. There was nowhere else to be and nothing urgent to do.

  As night fell, they lay together and stared at the moon rising through the sky light. It had been a perfect day, and now it promised to be a perfect night. A comfortable bed, the warm arms of a lover and the sweet smells of warm summer air. In less than a fortnight it would be June. Lying in Felix’s arms, she could almost believe there was no war being waged. No occupation. No Germans walking the streets. No Dieter waiting for an answer.

  ‘Tomorrow night is the attack on the factory,’ Felix reminded her. ‘Are you prepared?’

  ‘I don’t have much to do. Only stand around outside looking as if I’m waiting for someone. Maybe I will ask Antoine if I can borrow one of his wigs. I think I’d like to be a blonde while I wait for my illicit lover.’

  ‘Your illicit lover! How shocking,’ Felix said. ‘Do you have many?’

  ‘I have one other,’ Sylvie laughed. She slipped her arms about his waist from behind and nibbled his ear. ‘Watch out for him, he can be very moody but he plays the most wonderful music.’

  ‘He sounds best avoided.’ He twisted around. ‘Are you fond of him?’

  ‘Yes I am,’ Sylvie answered.

  He rolled over, pinning Sylvie down with the weight of his body.

  ‘Good. Because he is very fond of you.’

  How much of her sudden antipathy towards Dieter was due to the harsher side of him she had seen, and how much was due to her burgeoning relationship with Felix? She caught herself midway through the thought and brought herself up sharply. It wasn’t a relationship. They’d been to bed together a handful of times.

  He’d said he was there for her for as long as she wanted him, but he’d made it clear he knew she would be leaving eventually. This was wartime, and nothing was certain.

  She would be an idiot to expect anything more.

  A note arrived at Sylvie’s apartment midway through Monday afternoon. Madame Giraud brought it up, muttering darkly about being a messenger at her age. A scribbled line from Tante Louise asked Sylvie to call as a matter of urgency. She left at a run and caught up with Claire Barbe three streets away. They walked on opposite pavements, not acknowledging each other. As they neared the house, Claire sped up. Marcel’s trailer and bicycle were waiting outside in the road, and Claire had left the door ajar. Sylvie made her way upstairs as she had before.

  Marcel was sitting alone and rose to greet her.

  ‘There has been a change of plan for you, Sylvie.’

  ‘For tonight?’ She settled into the second dining chair. ‘I’m ready to go to the factory as instructed. Where do I go instead?’

  Marcel sipped his tisane.

  ‘You aren’t going to be involved at all.’

  ‘Why? If it is because of my behaviour the other day, you don’t have to worry.’ Her face grew hot. ‘I haven’t lost my nerve, Marcel,’ she protested.

  ‘I know you haven’t. Don’t worry, that isn’t why I’m moving you from that mission. Something more urgent has arisen that I can only entrust to someone who knows everything about what we do. We received a sked early this morning informing us that a wireless operator from Seamstress, the cell near Arcachon has had his cover blown. Fortunately, he was alert enough to realise and the rest of the network has gone to ground. The man’s alias is Henri Chevalier, field name Edouard. He evaded capture and has made a run for it. He’s working his way up the country and will be in Nantes tomorrow.’

  He waited while Sylvie digested the news. This was what every agent feared: exposure and capture. That was why agents took steps to make sure as few people as possible knew their real identities.

  ‘What do you need me to do?’

  ‘Meet him off the train at seven twenty-five and take him to the safe house on Rue de Venus. For one night, he will stay there. I’m afraid it will be a long journey across the city, but it is the safest location I can think of at short notice. It couldn’t have come at a worse time, coinciding with tonight’s plans.’

  He fished into the bag at his feet and produced a small silk handkerchief with a printed map; easy to hide and easy to burn. ‘Give him this map and send him on his way to the Couronne bar in Angers. I’ve kept a few of the food stamps from the raid, so you can give him them too.’

  ‘I understand.’

  She put the map and food stamps in the hidden pocket of her bag while Marcel told her the series of phrases that would confirm Henri’s identity, and she memorised them. She had to admit she was relieved at the change of plan. She’d had enough of late nights but escorting an agent across the city wouldn’t be easy.

  The train was delayed by almost half an hour, and by the time it disgorged its passengers, Sylvie was growing more and more vexed. She waited at the end of the platform behind the ticket barrier with a small bunch of flowers, anxiously looking around. Felix would be preparing to go wait at the factory, not knowing Sylvie was no longer taking part in the mission. He’d be watching for her from his post and not know why she wasn’t there.

  Her irritation soon became concern. No one matching the description she had been given appeared in the first rush of travellers eager to return home. The second wave of older or slower passengers made their way through the gates and still no one appeared. As Sylvie began to worry she had arrived for the wrong train, she saw a man hobbling down the platform. He had one arm over the shoulder of another passenger and was dragging his right foot, which looked to be twisted at an angle.

  He was holding a small, black suitcase and was dressed in a smart, well-fitting suit. He had a neat moustache and b
eneath his hat she could see fair hair. This must be the man she needed to meet.

  ‘Edouard, what have you done?’ Sylvie exclaimed, stepping from underneath the light.

  The man’s brow furrowed. Perhaps he was not the right man after all. She waved her flowers around, drawing his eyes to them. She could almost see the thoughts working behind his sharp grey eyes. She began the first part of the exchange.

  ‘Don’t tell me you forgot the flowers for Maman’s birthday?’

  Comprehension dawned in his eyes. He slapped his forehead in exasperation.

  ‘I must have left them at the market stall!’

  The counter phrase.

  ‘It’s just as well I bought some,’ Sylvie replied. The final part of the exchange. He looked relieved.

  ‘Hello, Monique,’ he said. ‘Your hair is not blonde any more, so I almost didn’t recognise you!’

  He gestured towards her, speaking to his aide. ‘My sister is here, monsieur!’

  His French was good, but to Sylvie, knowing his true nationality, it sounded like something learned rather than natural.

  ‘Edouard, what did you do to your leg? Were you drinking again?’ She folded her arms, crushing the flowers.

  ‘Your brother injured himself when he arrived to catch the train,’ the other passenger said. ‘He almost threw himself into the carriage.’

  Henry limped over to the ticket office and leaned against the windowsill.

  ‘Thank you for helping him,’ she said to the passenger. ‘I’ll look after him now. Come on, Edouard, mother will be wondering why we are late.’

  They waited until the helpful passenger had gone through the barrier, then Sylvie hooked his arm around her shoulder and helped him to walk. He swallowed, wincing as he tested the weight.

  They made it around the corner to where Sylvie had left her bicycle before she noticed the perspiration pooling on his forehead.

  ‘Are you in a lot of pain? You can speak in English if you do it quietly.’