The Lost Spy (Slim Moran Mysteries)

by Kate Moira Ryan

  “How can you be so sure?” Slim asked.

  “Because Michel was the last one to see her alive.” Bronwyn looked at Michel, who nodded.

  “But if it was only you . . .” Slim persisted.

  “Myself and the other inmates of Dachau concentration camp,” Michel countered. “I wish she was alive. I wish she were sitting with us now—here at this table enjoying this Armagnac—but it was war. The Invictus Network had collapsed. She was the only one still transmitting. We needed her.”

  “We should start at the beginning,” Dennis said. “If we put the puzzle pieces in order, you will see there is no way that Marie Claire could be sending those messages.” He signaled a waiter. “Will you be kind enough to tell Monsieur Claude that we may be here a while?” Dennis asked.

  “Mais oui, I am sure it will not be any trouble, but I will tell Monsieur Claude just so he knows.”

  After the waiter had left, Dennis nodded to Bronwyn. “Perhaps you should begin.”

  Bronwyn took a cigarette out of a gold case. As if on cue, Michel flipped open his lighter and lit it. She took a long drag and then began. “I am the one who trained Marie Claire as a wireless operator at that run-down country estate in Kent.”

  Kent, England, 1942

  Marie Claire was supposed to meet Bronwyn in the library at 1400 hours. It was already 2:20 p.m., and Bronwyn’s annoyance grew with every tick of the large grandfather clock. She surveyed the floor-to-ceiling bookcases and wondered when anyone had last opened one of the beveled glass doors and removed a book. Her eyes rested on the unlit massive stone hearth before moving to the scarred wooden table that divided the room. On it lay two telegraphs.

  At twenty-five minutes after the appointed hour, Marie Claire strolled in.

  “You’re late,” Bronwyn said, trying to contain her anger as she looked at the strikingly thin blonde with the high Slavic cheekbones.

  “I know. I’m sorry. I’m a bit of a mess . . .” Marie Claire said, holding out her hand, which Bronwyn ignored.

  “You can’t be a bit of mess when you’re dropped into France,” Bronwyn said, annoyed.

  “At dinner last night, someone mentioned that the average lifespan for a wireless operator is six weeks.”

  Bronwyn really had no time for this. She had four weeks to train this woman before she was to be dropped into unoccupied France, and at this rate, she’d be lucky to get her up to the most basic level. “I really don’t want to spend my time listening to you blather about your life expectancy. I’m here to teach you the skills necessary to become a skilled wireless operator. If you don’t think you can do that, then go back to wherever you’ve come from. I don’t have time for dramatics.”

  Marie Claire flashed back to her days at the typing pool and evenings with her depressed mother. She pointed to the two telegraphs on the table. “So where do we begin?”

  “You speak both French and English fluently, correct?”

  “And some German. After the Russian Revolution, we lived in Berlin.”

  “I don’t need to know your family history.” Bronwyn realized how harsh she was being and relaxed a bit in her tone. “Sit down next to me, and let’s go over the parts of the telegraph key. Tell me what you see.”

  “I see a slab of wood, two big screwy things holding down springs, and a wooden knob suspended by brass. I suppose you’ll tell me that you see the lifeline between the French Resistance and jolly old England.”

  Bronwyn suppressed a smile. “I’m not going to give you that rah-rah war bunk; that’s Chapman’s job. I’m here to teach, not to preach. This slab of wood that the telegraph key sits on is called the base. The ‘big screwy thing’ farthest away from the knob is known as the contact-knob adjustment. It’s used to calibrate the distance between the lower and upper contacts.” Bronwyn pointed to the lengths between the two knobs. “Adjusting it has an impact on how fast you send your information. This is the anvil.” She tapped the oblong-shaped piece of wood next to the knob. “This is also called the lower contact. It opens and closes when you send Morse code. And this round, flat piece of Bakelite is your knob. You’ll use your thumb and your two adjacent fingers to send encrypted messages in Morse. Shall we begin?”

  After two hours, Bronwyn looked at her watch. “It is time to send you upstairs, where you will be given your new identity.”

  “My identity? My name is Marie Claire and they told me that I’m supposed to be a nanny working for a family in Paris.”

  “Yes, but who are your relatives? What were your grandparents’ names? You’ll need to know this.”

  “When I’m arrested?” Marie Claire asked with an air of resignation.

  “If you’re arrested.” Bronwyn looked at her watch. “You’re going to be late if you don’t leave right now.”

  “Where am I going, exactly? There are dozens of rooms in this house.”

  “To the servants’ quarters in the attic. Room five. Off you go, then. I’ll see you tomorrow at the same time.”

  “I won’t be late.”

  “Don’t be.”

  Marie Claire was about to say something more but then decided wisely to keep her mouth shut and ran off. Bronwyn reached over and tapped out SOS as Chapman entered the room.

  “SOS? So, that’s what you think of our latest recruit?” Chapman asked as Bronwyn lit two cigarettes and handed one to her.

  “She doesn’t have the guts to do this job.”

  “It’s your first day with her. Give her a chance,” Chapman replied.

  “You must be getting pretty desperate if you want to send her out into the field.”

  When Chapman didn’t answer, her heart sank. Bronwyn had trained almost everyone who’d been dropped into France. “Who got caught now?”

  “We haven’t heard from Yvette.”

  “Yvette’s one of the last, isn’t she?”

  Chapman nodded. “Colonel Graham refuses to believe that she’s been nabbed or that the Invictus Network is collapsing. Agents are being picked up right and left. Someone is cluing the Germans into our every move. We need to stop sending people in until we get this sorted.”

  “Then stop.”

  “Colonel Graham is in charge.” Chapman shrugged.

  “Can’t you go above his head?” Bronwyn said incredulously.

  “No.”

  “So, you’re telling me that once Marie Claire is dropped into France, she’ll be picked up by the Gestapo?” Bronwyn was beside herself. How could they let their own agents become sacrificial lambs? Was Colonel Graham that much of a fool not to admit Invictus had collapsed?

  “Not necessarily. If Marie Claire can avoid initial capture, I can hook her up with Dennis. He’s trying to reconstitute the network.” Chapman tapped her ash into the granite tray.

  “Will Marie Claire know any of this before she goes in?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you telling me?”

  Chapman shrugged and then stubbed out her cigarette. “You need to stop smoking, you know. Women do not have a tobacco allowance in France.”

  “Where am I going?”

  “Marseille. You’re more valuable to us in the south.”

  “You mean less likely to be caught.”

  “You’re our most experienced wireless operator left. I am not going to sacrifice you in Paris. Anyway, the Resistance is based in the south.”

  After she had left, Bronwyn sat in a quandary. Should she warn Marie Claire? Or should she hope against hope that Marie Claire would be able to avoid immediate capture and hook up with Dennis? And why was Chapman so reluctant to go over Colonel Graham’s head? Everyone knew him to be an incompetent fool. But mostly she wondered, who was the mole feeding the Germans information?

  Paris, 1949

  The afternoon sun had begun to fade, so the waiters set the tables for the evening’s patrons. Bronwyn paused in her recollection and then said, “I did not tell Marie Claire that Invictus was collapsing. As for myself, I was dropped six weeks later in
Marseille, where I worked as a transmitter for another network until the end of the war.”

  “But how did Marie Claire avoid being picked up when she was dropped in? Surely if there had been a mole, she would’ve been picked up the second she landed in France.”

  “At the last minute, Chapman had the coordinates for the drop moved. She didn’t tell Colonel Graham. He was furious after he found out what she had done,” Dennis said.

  “How did the Resistance know where to pick her up?” Slim asked, thoroughly confused. “Wasn’t her drop planned weeks in advance?”

  “No,” said Dennis. “Plans changed all the time based on the weather. Agents were dropped using a Lysander plane, which was navigated solely by the moon. There was only one week out of the month where the moon was bright enough for the drops to occur.”

  “But how was Chapman able to change the plans so quickly?” Slim asked.

  “Every night after the news, the BBC would broadcast coded messages to the French about when and where the drops would occur. The day before Marie Claire was sent into France, Chapman changed the message, unbeknownst to Colonel Graham,” Dennis explained.

  “Then she must’ve suspected that Colonel Graham was the mole,” Slim persisted.

  “He wasn’t the mole,” Michel said with surprising vehemence.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “He may have been a bumbling idiot, but he was no traitor,” Dennis said ruefully.

  “But all the signs . . .”

  “Colonel Graham had twin sons who were in the RAF. They both were lost in bombing raids over Germany. You don’t sacrifice your children for a country you don’t believe in,” Dennis said sharply.

  “So, what happened after Marie Claire was dropped into France?” Slim still didn’t understand how such an ill-trained agent was able to evade capture.

  “This is where I pick up.” Dennis drained his glass and began. “I was the circuit organizer of the Invictus Network, and Marie Claire was my only hope of getting it up and running again.”

  France, 1942

  On September 1st, Dennis leaned closer to the radio. It was time for the BBC to broadcast its coded messages to the SOE agents.

  “This is London calling. Please listen now for some personal messages.”

  He waited. Please God, he silently prayed, let Chapman have changed the drop. He and the two surviving members of the Invictus Network were in danger. One more misstep, and they’d all be captured. He desperately needed this new wireless operator, but if she were picked up by the Gestapo, that would be the death knell for Invictus.

  “The elephant broke a defense. I repeat: the elephant broke a defense. The blue horse walks on the horizon. The giraffes don’t wear false collars. Yvette likes big carrots.”

  He sighed with relief. He knew from the nonsensical sentences that tomorrow a parachute drop of weapons with a new wireless operator was to be dropped two hundred kilometers outside Paris, in Honfleur. He handed the message to Amelie, his French courier, who looked at it and then lit it on fire. She would help him organize the Resistance in the area so he could pick up his transmitter. Then perhaps he could start Invictus again, and all would not be lost.

  The next evening, two men with torches waved in the low-flying Lysander while from the ground Amelie communicated with the pilot using the radio phone hanging around her shoulder. She nodded to Dennis, confirming that his prized wireless transmitter was on board. The plane landed with a skid on the freshly plowed field, and everyone ran toward it. Dennis helped Marie Claire out while the locally organized Maquis climbed aboard and retrieved the containers of ammunition and explosives needed for the next sabotage. Dennis exchanged parcels with the copilot, and in less than five minutes, the plane was back in the air.

  “Welcome to France. Come, let’s get you warm,” he said to the shivering young woman as they made their way to the safe house located across the field. The woman before him seemed barely older than his sixteen-year-old daughter.

  “I’m Marie Claire,” she said, extending her hand.

  Dennis noticed how slight she was as he shook her long, elegant fingers. It would not be easy for her to lug that thirty-pound wireless set unnoticed around the streets of Paris. He opened the door to the barn and led them inside.

  “We don’t have much time. I’m Dennis, the head of the Invictus Network, and my job is to organize the Maquis in the area. I will give the list of necessary supplies and coordinates for all our jobs to Amelie. She will drop them in a letter box in Paris, and you will transmit the information back to London.”

  “Where will the letter box be?” Marie Claire knew all this information, but she was told that upon arrival, she would be given the address of the letter box.

  “We’re changing all the letter boxes because we’re sure that we’ve been infiltrated.”

  “Infiltrated?” Marie Claire suddenly seemed less confident about what she’d signed up for.

  “The last batch of agents Chapman sent out were arrested as soon as they were dropped in. I had Chapman change the location for tonight’s landing. You’re my last hope of getting Invictus up and running again. You’re to transmit to HQ within twenty-four hours. Amelie will take you to your safe house in Paris. Are there any other questions?”

  “Why wasn’t I told that Invictus has been infiltrated?” Marie Claire felt like she had been thrown to the wolves.

  “You’re all we have left. Every other wireless operator in Paris has been picked up by the Gestapo,” Amelie replied in French.

  “Look, we’re all on borrowed time here, but the war is not going well for the Germans. Between Stalingrad and North Africa, it’s swinging in our favor, but we need to cripple communication and supply lines so the Allied invasion can be successful,” Dennis said, trying to inject some confidence into the new recruit.

  “When will that be?” Marie Claire had heard talk of the invasion, but nobody knew when it was going to happen.

  “Who knows? For now, we have a job to do. Marie Claire, you will help pave the way for the invasion. Your job is crucial. You have to be smart and three steps ahead of the Gestapo.”

  A truck pulled up outside the stone farmhouse, and Dennis nodded to Amelie, who picked up Marie Claire’s heavy radio set.

  “Good luck,” he said.

  “Will I see you again?”

  “Not until the war is over. If another courier comes, it’s because Amelie has been arrested.” Dennis laid his hand on Marie Claire’s shoulder, kissed her on both cheeks, and then he whispered in her ear, “Trust no one, not even me.”

  Paris, 1949

  “Why do you think the Invictus Network collapsed?” Slim asked.

  “It started falling apart six months before Marie Claire was dropped into Paris,” Dennis explained. “Before that, it had been so successful that we felt invincible. Then overnight, it seemed like the Germans knew when every drop was going to occur. We had our agents picked up right and left. I think there was someone in the British office who was playing both sides.”

  “Who?”

  “We think it was Chapman,” Michel murmured.

  “Chapman? But why?” Slim asked

  “She wasn’t a natural-born citizen, you know. For most of the war, she was an enemy alien.”

  “But she seems so British.” Slim found it unbelievable that the woman who had visited her yesterday could be anything but what she seemed.

  “She was born in Romania,” Amelie said.

  “But if Miss Chapman was the mole, why would she spend all this time tracking down what happened to her missing agents?” Slim asked, confused. “She told me that she’d discovered what happened to eleven out of the twelve women who were lost.”

  “Perhaps she wanted to make sure they were dead,” Amelie said cynically.

  “Obviously, these ‘messages’ she’s getting are unnerving her. She’s probably scared that the truth will come out,” Bronwyn said, lighting up a Gauloise.

  “I don’t
understand. Why wouldn’t Miss Chapman go after all of you?”

  “She knows we have no proof that she was in on it, and without proof, she is untouchable.” Bronwyn blew a puff of smoke. “But she must really think Marie Claire is alive if she’s got you trying to find her.”

  “But why would she change Marie Claire’s drop without telling Colonel Graham?” Slim asked.

  “That was just a cover. She was setting her up so she could be captured.”

  “But why? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “She wanted Marie Claire and her wireless set captured. So, the Funkspiel could begin,” Michel said.

  “The Funkspiel? What is that?” Slim asked.

  “It is German. It means radio game.”

  “What’s the radio game?” Slim asked.

  “The Germans would capture our agents and transmit as them using our wireless sets. After Marie Claire was arrested, we lost even more agents, not to mention ammunition and supplies,” Dennis said.

  “So I guess now someone’s playing the Funkspiel with Chapman,” Bronwyn noted dryly.

  “She’s receiving these messages, so someone must be transmitting them.” Slim paused, letting that sink in, and then continued. “After Marie Claire landed, where did you take her, Amelie?”

  “I took her to Françoise. I believe you are acquainted with her as well, no? Your ‘bar’ is the talk of Paris.” Amelie arched her eyebrow at Slim and then began.

  Paris, 1942

  “Never take the metro, because you can be searched, and if you’re carrying the wireless set, you will be arrested,” Amelie whispered in French to Marie Claire as they walked past two German soldiers on the rue de l’Odéon. One of the soldiers winked.

  “Don’t ever do that,” she hissed after she noticed Marie Claire looking back.

  “What? What did I do?” Marie Claire asked nervously.

  “Don’t ever look at them directly. Don’t ever make eye contact. Make yourself invisible.” Amelie could not believe no one had taught the new girl the basics of survival.

  “It’s just so odd to see all these soldiers and the flags with the swastikas flying about the buildings. I guess the Paris I once knew is gone,” she said, feeling fatigued by lugging the heavy suitcase with the transmitter inside.