‘Because after you’d said you’d be here anyway, I thought I might as well…’
‘Yes. That’d make sense.’ More quietly, then: ‘What’s happened, François, what’s wrong?’
‘Let’s sit down. This all right for you?’
‘Practically in the kitchen, but otherwise—’
‘If it’s too close to it—’
‘No.’ Reassuring him. ’I’d have picked this one.’ He looked distraught. Fumbling distractedly as he hung his coat up, and that awful hat; she kept her own coat on because of the money in its pockets. He looked even worse than he had on Saturday: her thought was He is going to rat on me… Then she caught his murmur – the drawn face close to hers for a moment – ‘They’ve taken Marie-Claude as a hostage.’
‘Oh, God – François—’
‘To ensure my own – compliance. I’ve got to work for them – tell them whatever Prigent wants me to find out for him. It all came from him – those calls he kept making to me – and they know about him, that he’s a British agent! So – I’m sorry, Zoé, but—’
‘M’sieur, Madame—’
Little flat-chested waitress: snub nose, freckles, curly light-brown hair… Recognizing le Guen: ‘It’s you, M’sieur. Haven’t seen you just lately!’
‘No – not lately…’
‘Madame – today the soup is good, they’re all enjoying it. There’s also cheese.’
‘I’ll have soup. Bread with it. But we’ll have a beer first, please – François, you’ll have one?’
He’d sat down, at last. Looking from the waitress to her. ‘I’m not sure…’
‘I am. I’m parched. So you must keep me company.’ She told the girl, ‘Two beers, then two soups with bread.’ She waited until she’d gone, and added, ‘I’m paying, by the way.’
‘No – I couldn’t possibly allow—’
‘And I’ve brought your money. Fifty thousand. Now tell me, François – they’ve taken her hostage so you’ll do what they tell you, they know Prigent’s an agent and you’re to be a double agent, informing on him… Right? When did it all happen?’
‘Sunday night.’ He told her about the one a.m. call, the questioning by Fischer and his acceptance that Marie-Claude knew nothing about anything…
‘But they still took her. I didn’t know it until they told me later, in the SD headquarters. Just before he sent me home – a man named Braun, a Sturmbannführer – he told me they’d taken her.’
‘Here’s our beer.’
‘Oh…’
Sitting back: shutting his eyes. Face pale-grey, twitchy, and a shine of sweat on his forehead. If there’d been a watcher, anyone with the least interest in them, they couldn’t have failed to see that he was under enormous stress – or just ill… Rosie saw the waitress noticing, the concern in her eyes, and diverted her attention by offering to pay – for the beer, or for the whole meal now in advance; the girl told her it would all be on the one addition, later. She threw another look at le Guen, then back at Rosie, questioningly: Rosie shook her head, with a small, tight smile, implying, It’s all right, I’m coping…
‘François? Smoke?’
‘No – thank you, I just—’
She lit one for herself. Giving herself time to think: decide what the hell to say. What kind of hope to hold out: under what conditions he might still be persuaded to go through with it.
Hope of getting the girl out, was the only answer. Nothing else would do it. If he’d believe in that: if she could, even…
‘François, listen. We’ll get her back to you, somehow. I don’t know exactly how, but – somehow.’ She had vague thoughts of Peucat claiming Marie-Claude as his patient, using any influence he might have through the gendarmerie in St Michel, for instance, or of Count Jules pulling strings at some higher level. Neither of which, on second thoughts, could be contemplated – even if they’d have stood a chance. But – something… He hadn’t yet had a chance to tell her he was pulling out, and her instinct was to steer him clear of this rather than wait until he came out with it.
She was aware, too, that he might well change his mind again the minute he was out of her sight. Also of the danger she herself was in, here and now. It was a risk anyway to be meeting in a public place; in the circumstances he’d just described it wasn’t just a risk, it was idiocy. She wouldn’t have been here, if she’d known.
But what else?
Glancing round: although the plain fact was you wouldn’t see anyone taking notice. Boches were swine but they weren’t simpletons.
‘I mean it, François – we will get her out.’ In the back of her mind, something Lannuzel had proposed… ‘There’s a man I must talk to, that’s all… Aren’t you going to drink your beer?’
‘Oh yes…’
Shaking hand. A dribble down his chin as he put the glass down again. Mopping himself… Rosie wondering what else they’d asked him about, in connection with Prigent, and what else he might have told them. Among their more immediate interests, obviously, would be the identities of any of Prigent’s associates or acquaintances, others using his surgery as a rendezvous. Le Guen had leant closer: ‘He said – Braun did – she’d come to no harm. That she won’t be among any hostages that might be shot, he meant. As long as I do as I’m told. I’ve got to – d’you understand?’
‘Inform on Prigent. Yes.’
‘But also—’
‘Where are they holding her?’
‘Where they hold all hostages – at Kerongués. Near there – near the village, I mean – but it’s generally known as Kerongués. An old mill they – adapted.’
‘And where is Kerongués?’
‘About five kilometres east, on the road to Gourin. Like a concentration-camp, now. Wire fence perimeter, searchlights, machine-guns I dare say…’ Grimacing: ‘Imagine…’
‘But if he said – what you just told me, that she’d come to no harm—’
‘Yes, he said that, but—’
‘Up to a point perhaps you can believe it. As long as they think they’re getting value out of you – as they will be, if you’re going to tell them whatever Prigent’s after—’
‘I have to!’
‘I agree. You must. And without tipping him off, too. Prigent, I mean, don’t risk it. Play straight with them – as far as you can. François, I’m terribly sorry this has happened. Also of course – well, I admit I have my own axe to grind, I want you there and still their trusted employee when this order comes in – the reinforcement at – you know where… No, hold on – listen… What I meant about trusting them – I said, Up to a point – meaning as things are now, while they need you – but you’ve got to realize it won’t last. They’ll use you for a time, but they’ll also be itching to arrest him – then it’s over. And d’you think they’d release Marie-Claude to you then?’
‘Yes, surely. Well – that’s the deal, they—’
‘I’d say she’ll end up as a hostage like any other. I’m not saying this to make you feel worse than you do already, François—’ she put her hand on his, on the table-top – ‘only to face facts and do what’s best. We’ve got to get her out of it. Don’t ask me how – I don’t know – yet…’
Looking past him, at freckle-face coming with their soup.
‘Hang on a moment…’
Guy Lannuzel would provide the answer – if there was one. He’d suggested something of the sort when she’d been telling him about the ‘Mincemeat’ plan. He’d argued that all it would achieve was get a lot of hostages dragged out and shot, then at a later stage he’d suggested avoiding this by breaking in and letting them all out. Before the action, presumably. At the time she’d wondered whether he was serious: concluding that it wouldn’t help anyway, they’d only seize a few others and shoot them instead.
But she hadn’t had this special axe to grind, then. They’d been talking about avoiding reprisals in general, not about extracting one individual.
Le Guen was receiving his bowl of steaming soup
. She already had hers in front of her. Rabbit and turnip, she guessed, sniffing it. Grow long ears and start burrowing, any day now… Lannuzel, though: he’d made that suggestion very much off the cuff; faced with it as a serious proposition he might wish he’d kept his mouth shut.
See him this afternoon. Go that longer way round, then on back to St Michel-du-Faou, and make this trip again tomorrow. On a diet of rabbit soup, for Pete’s sake…
The waitress had left them. Waft of some different cooking smell from in there as the door swung shut. Fish? Nobody had said anything about fish; she couldn’t see any on other tables either.
‘About Marie-Claude, François. There’s a friend I’ll talk to.’
‘About getting her out?’ A frown, and a dismissive gesture. ‘It’s not possible. You’re dying to hearten me, but—’
‘I believe it is possible. The friend I’m talking about—’
‘Even if she escaped somehow, she couldn’t then come home!’
‘You’re right. The answer’s the Maquis.’
‘Marie-Claude – camp out in some forest?’ Gazing at her as if he thought she was raving mad. ‘With thugs and—’
‘No. It’s the Boches who put it around that they’re brigands and criminals. They’re thoroughly good people, for the most part. Women among them too, now, she wouldn’t be the only one. And she’s young – and healthy, isn’t she?’ She put her spoon down; the soup was still too hot to drink. ‘Alternatively she might be sheltered elsewhere.’ Thinking of Sara de Seyssons, and that house big enough to hide a dozen Marie-Claudes in. ‘Another thing, though – an invasion from England can’t be long delayed. I doubt she’d be in the wilds for long. And meanwhile far less at risk than where she is now.’
Staring at her… ‘They’d come straight to me – d’you realize?’
Spooning-up soup again, blowing on it… ‘The Boches would, you mean, if she did escape.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Your SD friends. Yes. But this would have been my next suggestion.’ Rosie nodded. ‘Don’t have a fit now – but why shouldn’t you also disappear?’
‘You’re not – serious…’
‘I assure you, I am. You and she together. Why not?’
‘I suppose because I can’t – imagine it…’
‘To be with her, look after her – look after each other? Instead of leaving her to take her chances – and probably getting arrested yourself, eventually?’
‘But—’
‘Yes?’
‘Well – how does one live? Food, shelter—’
‘There are people who help. Résistants who organize collections, and so forth. Doctors give their services when required. Luckily, too, it’s now the spring, and summer coming, life becomes much easier. François – here’s a statistic. In the Bordeaux area alone, guess how many Maquis there are at this moment?’
‘Heaven knows…’
‘More than five thousand. That’s a fact. Honestly – it’s the one solution that takes care of everything. Don’t you see? Incidentally, you could take fifty thousand francs with you, if you wanted – you’d be made very welcome!’
‘It’s still – make-believe…’
‘It’s how you see yourself – at the moment, what you think you can’t do!’
‘Pre-supposing that Marie-Claude could be got out of the camp – which would surely be extremely difficult—’
‘Difficult, yes. But I think it can be done: I’ll know for sure within a day or so. What you have to decide is whether you can measure up to it – effectively, François, how much you care for her.’
‘I’d die for her!’
‘But not endure a little anxiety, perhaps discomfort?’
A pause: gazing at her. ‘You really mean this.’
‘After the invasion – which won’t be long coming – and when the Boches are on the run—’
‘You made that point. I remember…’
‘Think of your own position. You’re working for the Germans. When they’re beaten and we’re picking up the pieces d’you want Prigent for instance pointing you out as having not only informed on him, but left your own daughter to take her chances?’
‘But I have not—’
‘You look like a collaborator, even now. You take their pay – don’t you? All right, so you’re going to help me – my people, as you’ve promised – and that would stand to your credit, we’d vouch for the fact you had. But where might Marie-Claude be by then? Besides, could you keep your promise to help us, with her in that place?’
‘You know I couldn’t.’
‘So what’s to your credit, when the time comes?’
‘You’re so certain such a time is coming…’
‘Yes, I am. We all are. We know it.’
‘And you’re saying I’d be seen as a traitor, although the truth is I’m being blackmailed – with my own daughter’s life—’
‘That’s the issue we’re discussing, François. You don’t have to give into blackmail. Do this for us – as you’ve promised you would – and we’ll look after you both. Everyone’ll know which side you’re on!’
‘So now it’s your blackmailing?’
‘It’s me asking for your help. Resistance and Maquis asking for your help. In return, as I say, we’d look after you. Hardly blackmail – fair exchange, honourable exchange…’
He was wiping his bowl out. Looking down into it, grim-faced.
‘And as to poor Marie-Claude – you can’t possibly be content to leave her in their hands?’
‘Of course not content—’
‘Well – imagine – when we get her out, and you’re with us. Such a moment for her. All your life you’ll know you did the right thing, and all her life—’
‘Yes…’
Mopping her own bowl now. Glancing up, meeting his eyes again. ‘Think about it? Meanwhile I’ll talk to this man: and if he says yes, it can be done—’
‘If it’s really and truly feasible…’
He’d shut his eyes. Pale, long-fingered hands on the table each side of the empty bowl. A deep breath: eyes open and meeting hers then… ‘If it’s the way to safeguard Marie-Claude – as well as these other things – our whole future, the way you put it… And if he says he can do it—’
‘If this man says he can, he will.’
‘All right.’
‘Meet me again tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘I’ll have seen him by then. And there’s no time to waste, is there. The order for the deployment might come this afternoon, for all we know. Let’s hope it won’t – be a bit too soon – but it could, couldn’t it. And the thing would be – I guess – to get her out the same night, arrange a breakout simultaneously, and for you to be at some place to rendezvous with us. D’you have a bicycle, by the way?’
‘Of course.’
‘Cigarette, now?’
‘I shouldn’t. Smoking so much…’
‘What the things are for, surely.’
‘I still can’t help feeling it’s all – unreal…’
‘The opposite. Reacting to things as they are. Same as – well, if you fall in the sea, you swim – uh? And as I say, if this man says it can be done—’
‘Yes. Yes…’ He was getting a match out. It flared, in his shaking fingers; lighting her cigarette, then his own. Bolt upright then, as if at attention, taking a long, deep drag: realizing, she hoped, that he really had no option, in his situation now… ‘Listen. Let’s meet tomorrow in the Parc de la Providence, on one of those benches. Might even stroll up there—’
‘I must get back. Really…’
‘Tomorrow at one, then. A bench say about halfway up. Let’s hope it isn’t raining… Listen – another thing altogether. I hope not to have to telephone you again. Telephones can be dangerous – especially now. Well, you know that – you handled it very well last night. But if I did have to – in some emergency – I’d say it’s Zoé ringing to ask whether Marie-Claude’s back yet. Are yo
u supposed to keep it secret, that she’s a hostage?’
‘Yes. Braun said otherwise Prigent might guess what’s going on.’
‘He would, wouldn’t he… Anyway – you aren’t telling this Zoé, the friend of Marie-Claude’s who’s on the phone, so all she’d know is Marie-Claude’s still away – somewhere. Then whatever I needed to say we’d have to improvise, like you did last night. That was clever of you, by the way.’
A nod. ‘I must go now—’
‘One more minute. Please – it’s important.’ She had her purse out, in preparation for paying the bill, but making use of it too as a reason to be looking downward, making the almost non-stop flow of talk less obvious – she hoped… ‘François – for when you see the troop-deployment order, here’s an address to memorize. I won’t write it down, just remember it – twenty-one B Place Saint-Matthieu. Not all that far from where you live – right? So – write on any old slip of paper, “The baby is due about – ” and then the date, or dates. Fold the paper, go for a walk through Place Saint-Matthieu, put it through the letter-slot and walk on past. It’s an ancient house divided into three. Green front door with the number twenty-one B on it in white. The doors each side are white, twenty-one B the only one that’s green. Before you make the delivery, try to check you aren’t being followed. Got it?’
‘Place Saint-Matthieu twenty-one B.’
She nodded. ‘Any time, day or night. The people who live there don’t know who you are, your name or mine or what it’s about, but they’ll telephone the message to a number where I’ll get it. No link back to you, you see – as long as you aren’t followed.’
‘Very well.’
‘Believe me – it won’t be forgotten.’
Nodding: getting ready to leave, looking round to check his coat was where he’d hung it.
‘Until tomorrow, then.’
‘Yes. And – thank you…’
A scared cat if there’d ever been one. But as far as it went – OK. Touch wood. If he meant it, and stuck to it – if it wasn’t just that he was terrified, wanting only to get away from her. She thought of cementing their relationship with a farewell kiss, but it might have done more harm than good. All right, she thought, tell that anecdotally – if you ever got a chance to tell any of this – you’d raise a laugh or at least a smile; but he could be scared of that, she was definitely scared of this – all of it. They might well be keeping him under surveillance, it would be almost surprising if they weren’t, and this goldfish-bowl of a café having been a haunt of his – well, any of those glum-looking people sucking up their soup…
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