An important thing was not to look or act scared. Not to unknown watchers, and in this present instance perhaps even more importantly not to François le Guen. Who’d got his coat on, was back at the table, hurriedly offering her his hand. She leant back, to take it: ‘François – if you have to go… Oh, hell, nearly forgot – all these francs – since I’ve actually got them here – look, easier to do this outside—’
Chapter 10
He’d refused to take the money. She’d told him all right, she’d keep it safe for him. She’d have felt a lot better if he had taken it. Another worry that plagued her on her way back from Quimper was Michel Prigent: quite obviously she ought to warn London that he was blown, but there were also good reasons not to.
She was in Châteauneuf-du-Faou before six, and at Lannuzel’s farm by ten past. She’d come about forty kilometres: with the prospect of another twelve from here to St Michel – some of it in the dark, at that – and then the whole thing to do again tomorrow. But the hardest work of all had been the hour she’d spent with le Guen. She wished he had taken the money. If he had, she’d have felt more sure of him. He was too naive to be dishonest: accepting payment would have imposed a sense of obligation on him.
Lannuzel’s pickup wasn’t where it had been last time. So he might not be here. If he wasn’t, as she had to see him before she could get any further with le Guen and ‘Mincemeat’ she’d have to wait here for him, even if necessary sleep here. No great problem in that – she imagined – except that it would mean missing her hour’s listening-watch tonight.
On the other hand, riding back in the dark wasn’t much of a problem either, now she had her Ausweis.
‘Hey – Suzanne!’
His voice came from behind her: she looked round, saw him coming from the farm gate. That long-strided limp of his. Donkey-jacket over his shoulder, open-necked blue shirt, blue trousers. She waved – relieved, glad to see him, and struck again by the similarity to Ben.
The dogs were giving tongue again, up there. They seemed to be kept shut up a lot. He’d told her they roamed free at night.
‘Nice timing, Guido! Saw your truck wasn’t there, I wasn’t sure.’
‘Truck’s in the barn.’ He jerked a thumb. ‘I’ve been visiting a near neighbour, that’s all – on a matter relating to your good news, as it happens. Saturday, eh?’
‘Subject to confirmation. In other words the message you called gibberish?’
‘The joys of spring, et cetera.’
‘Something like that.’
He was beside her, now. ‘Nice work, anyway.’
‘They’ve been quick – as they said they would. But listen – all right with you if I join you, that night?’
‘Perfectly all right.’ He smiled down at her. ‘Any night.’ She pretended not to have caught on; he took her arm, turning her towards the house again. Maybe the similarity to Ben went deeper than just appearances. ‘Want to see how we handle it, do you?’
‘Main reason is they’ll be dropping some things I’ve asked for, and I’d like to be there to collect them. A radio-transceiver, and an “S” phone. Know what that is?’
‘Sure.’
‘For use on future drops. The container’s supposed to have a “Z” for “Zoé” on it.’
‘Easy, then. Glad to have you with us, too. Come in the afternoon or early evening, will you?’
‘Fine.’ They were almost at the house. ‘By bike from here, or will there be other transport?’
‘A lorry. Gazo. Was it just to ask me this, Suzanne, that you’ve dropped by?’
‘No. There’s a more important subject.’ She leant her bike against the wall where she had last time. ‘Important – also tricky. You may say impossible. How’s Brigitte?’
‘Blooming. Like me. May I say something rather personal?’
His eyes were on her face. Then a forefinger touching her lips. ‘Your mouth fascinates me. I love to watch you while you’re speaking.’
‘I’ll try to talk less, then.’
‘Spoilsport. Any case it’s not only your mouth… What I’m saying is – well—’
‘Better not say it, Guido.’
‘Don’t tell me – a husband somewhere?’
‘As good as. He will be – husband, I mean – when this is over.’
‘Right now he’s far away?’
She shook her head. ‘Not to me, he isn’t. I’m telling you this seriously, Guido. I’m sorry – and flattered – but—’
‘But bugger off.’ Pausing near the door… ‘OK. Although – if this lucky bastard lets you down – give me the nod?’
‘He’s no bastard, and he won’t!’
‘Unless he’s a damn fool – which you’ll say he isn’t… Anyway – come on in.’ Pushing the door open: ‘Brigitte, look who’s here!’
* * *
Brigitte didn’t spend long with them: chatted with Rosie for a moment, then exchanged glances with her brother, shrugged, and murmured something about several hundred chicks in incubators needing to be seen to.
‘Anyway – you have secrets to exchange – right?’
‘Not secrets from you, I’d have thought. But it’s – as I said, Guy, a bit – tricky.’
A smile from Brigitte: ‘Then I certainly mustn’t—’
‘It’s best she hears as little as possible, Suzanne.’ He explained – by the look of him, wishing he didn’t have to – ‘Because – before she starts in on this again, having you as audience – actually I think I began to tell you when you were here before – this place is hers and her husband’s. When he comes back, I’ll move on and leave them to themselves – leaving him his wife in full working order, this is the point – not a fond memory, someone who might still be half alive in some prison or concentration-camp.’
‘I’m quite ready to take my chances.’ She’d come back from the door. ‘No, Guy, it’s all right, I won’t “start in”, as you call it. We’ve talked this over and over, Suzanne, my dear brother and I. He means for the best, but he’s extremely obstinate, always has been.’
He nodded to Rosie. ‘It’s an infliction.’
‘But how can you hope to keep her out of it? When she’s living in the same house with you – obviously an active Résistant?’
‘It’s plain to everyone but him.’ Brigitte shrugged. ‘Look, are you sure you don’t want any coffee, or tea?’
‘No – thank you.’
‘But d’you know, he actually thinks he could be arrested or shot or whatever – on one of these outings such as you’re arranging for Saturday, eh? – and they either wouldn’t come here at all or they’d believe me when I said I knew nothing about it!’
‘Guy – it’s a nice thought, but—’
‘You tell him. I’ll leave you to it. Come any time, though. Come when my idiot brother’s not here.’
Lannuzel said as the door shut, ‘I keep her out of it as far as I can, that’s all. Obviously, you’re both right, there’s no way she can be isolated from it, exactly, but it gives her a better chance than if she was actively involved. No, wait, there’s more – all my friends and co-Résistants know for sure she’s truly not involved. They’d all swear to it – she would have a chance. And what I want, you see – suppose they caught us on Saturday – I could be shot or sent to Buchenvald, sure, but she could run this farm on her own – I’ve made sure of that – and pray God she’d be here when Paul gets back. OK – if he does, if he’s still alive. I’m giving her – them – the best chance I can, that’s all.’
‘A very slight chance, isn’t it. But – all right—’
‘There’s more. They lost a child. Don’t tell her I told you this, but you might as well – understand it. Little girl eighteen months old. 1940 this was – near Lille. There was dive-bombing and machine-gunning of refugees. Paul had already been taken prisoner, she was on her own. So – I want her to have – you know, a life. Please God, with Paul, but—’
‘You weren’t ever married?’
&nb
sp; ‘No. Not that that has anything to do with it… Suzanne – you don’t want to be here all night, what’s this you say is tricky?’
She nodded. ‘Yes… Cigarette?’
‘Thanks.’
Shaking out two Caporals… ‘Remember you said – when we were talking about Trevarez – that a solution to the problem of reprisals against hostages might be to break into the detention-camp and let them out? And would it be the camp at Kerongués you were talking about?’ He nodded. She leant towards the match: ‘Would it be possible?’
Lighting his own. ‘Might be…’ Breathing smoke… ‘It was once thought of, I may tell you. In fact I rather liked the idea: that’s how it came to mind. But hardly worth doing if they’re only going to grab another lot and shoot them – as I think you pointed out yourself, the other day?’
‘It would be to get one individual out. Perhaps some others too, but only to confuse the issue.’
‘So they can’t identify the one you were really after.’
‘Exactly. But primarily, to get her out.’
‘A woman… You’d have some place for her to go then?’
‘I’d thought the Maquis. Either your lot or in the Montagnes d’Arrées. She’s a young school teacher – incidentally, might have her father with her.’
‘You mean he’s a hostage too, or—’
‘No – he’d probably be joining us when we did it. An alternative, by the way, is Count Jules might let her hide out at Scrignac. I’ll look into that – if you tell me you can do it. It is important, Guido. Her father’s the informer who’s going to tip me off when there’s a date for the next naval staff conference at Trevarez. He has a job with the Boches in Quimper – they think he’s their informer, and they’ve locked her up to keep him in line. That’s how it is – he’s not going to help unless I can guarantee her safety.’
‘You can’t. Who could?’
‘All right – guarantee we’ll get her out of that camp, say.’
‘She’d be safer left in it.’
‘After “Mincemeat”?’
Staring at her – puzzled. Then he’d caught on. ‘Right. Perhaps not. We’d need to get her out before that.’
‘On the same night, was what I thought. When with any luck they’ll have their hands full.’
‘Well – yes, that might not be bad…’
‘Are you saying yes, you can do it?’
‘I won’t say it’s impossible. If it’s so – vital… As I said, we were planning a rescue of this kind, a while ago. Some of us were to dress in Wehrmacht uniforms – which we still have, of course. They were brought to us by Georgians – conscripts from Georgia, Soviet Union?’
‘White Russians?’
Most so-called ‘White’ Russians in the Nazi ranks were poison. Thieves, drunkards, molesters. If anything, worse than Germans.
Lannuzel had shaken his head. ‘These were forcibly recruited – dislike the Boches almost as much as we do. That’s why they came over and the boys accepted them.’
‘You wouldn’t use them, though – would you?’
‘No. Only the uniforms. I think if we did it I’d make it my job. Missing the action at Trevarez, of course… But just me and – three or four others. Anyway, that’s detail.’
‘The decision itself’s important. If I can tell him we’ll get his daughter out, he’ll help us. At least, I hope… But if I can’t—’
‘He won’t. Then no “Mincemeat”.’
She nodded.
‘Suppose you told him OK, we’ll get the girl out – on the night – so you’ll get your tip-off from him—’
‘So I’d have reason to hope I would—’
‘Then it might become impossible, for some reason?’
‘No. I think we have to play straight with him. Word gets around, doesn’t it. If we use people, then leave them in the lurch—’
‘Yes.’ A nod. ‘You’re quite right.’
‘So do your utmost?’
‘We’ll – put our heads together.’
‘Soon, though? Thing is, I’ll be seeing him tomorrow… I suppose I could tell him you’re working on it…’
* * *
Provisionally, he’d said, yes, she could. In fact she could tell him anything she liked, at this stage – and he’d try to give her a conclusive answer when she came on Saturday. He didn’t command these fellows; they’d have as much say in it as he had, and they’d have to volunteer – having first satisfied themselves there’d be a fair chance of pulling it off without ending up dead or captured.
Cycling northward into growing dusk, she thought about where that left her, in the context of her meeting with le Guen tomorrow lunchtime.
She’d tell him yes. Not provisionally, but definitely. Instinct told her that if she didn’t, she’d lose him: thus losing all hope of ‘Mincemeat’ too.
There were hardly any cyclists on the road at this hour. A few heavy goods or farm vehicles, some with no lights at all, others with small, dim ones, slits of weak light through blackout shields – and a gazo van or car occasionally. None of those in recent minutes, though, and no petrol-engined cars at all – none of the Master Race abroad tonight, it seemed. She was riding as close to the right-hand verge as she could; her bike had no lamp on it, only reflectors.
Fork coming up ahead. Immediately after it, she’d be crossing the main east-west road; but before that she’d have to cross the traffic – if there was any – on this one, in order to take that left fork.
Lights, along there…
Shaded headlights, and moving torches. A scattering of men in the road illuminated suddenly – uniforms, all Wehrmacht – then that torch-beam had left them, swept over a van’s open doors. She thought tiredly Here we go again… Stopping with one foot down, looking back over her left shoulder and then ahead: she pushed off, rode across into the left fork, towards the lights and whatever was happening there. She might have held on, keeping to the right, but would surely have ended up the same way. Why would they put a block on only the minor road? Her papers were in order; anyway, there were nearly two hours to go before curfew at ten p.m., and one wouldn’t have wanted to be caught trying to evade a road-check.
‘Halt!’
A torch-beam shone straight at her, blindingly. She stopped, and dismounted. A hand up to shield her eyes…
‘Kom! Venez!’
She went forward slowly – a few metres, with the beam of light still on her. It shifted to the bike for a moment, then came back to her.
‘Papers?’
She leant the machine against her hip, and eased the wad of documentation in its now somewhat tattered envelope out of the inside breast pocket of her coat. Holding it out towards him. This was an officer of some kind: high-fronted cap, rank insignia on the shoulders of his greatcoat. He’d taken the package and was holding the papers by one corner, his torch and the empty envelope in that same hand, flipping pages over with the other. Light gleamed on the barrel of a slung rifle – a soldier a few metres away, in the centre of the road. Others beyond him, and a military truck parked further along, close to the gazo van that was being searched.
‘You’re out late?’
‘I’ll be home well before curfew. There’s an Ausweis there permitting night work anyway. I’m a nurse.’
‘I am aware of it.’ He gave the sheaf of papers another flip, exposing her carte d’identité with its passport-type photograph. Lighting it with the torch, then switching the beam to her – straight at her face. Gone, then: leaving her temporarily blinded… It was a moment before she saw that he was handing her papers back to her.
‘I signed your Ausweis myself, yesterday morning.’ His French accent wasn’t too bad. ‘I also take note that the original is a great deal more attractive than the photograph!’
Shrugging – as if she hadn’t understood. Guy Lannuzel an hour ago – now this. She wasn’t feeling in the least bit attractive: frayed and travel-worn, was the truth. Pushing the papers back into her coat. ‘M’sieur�
��’
‘Goodnight, Mam’selle!’
A heel-click, for God’s sake – and he was lighting the way for her with his torch. Charm offensive? She mounted: loathing him, loathing all of them: wobbling a bit as she got going. Soldiers in the road and around the van turned to glance at her as she passed – astonishing herself in that same moment by recognizing their victim. A civilian – Frenchman – standing with his back against the German truck, arms up and hands linked behind his head, a look of shock on his unshaven but – as she remembered, from the only other time she’d seen it – rather genial, friendly face. The man from the corner bar in St Michel, the one who’d told her how to find the doctor’s house. Name of – she got it: Timo Achard.
* * *
‘On his own, you say.’
Peucat had kept her supper warm for her. A pie mostly of cabbage, potato and cheese, with bits of sausage here and there. It was very good and there was plenty of it.
Rosie nodded. ‘I’d guess it was his van. Greyish colour. There was no one else in sight – except Boches, of course.’
‘His van is blue.’
‘Could have been – in the dark and torchlight. Is he a Résistant?’
A shrug. ‘Who’d know?’
‘I’d have thought you might.’
‘It’s more likely he’d have been engaged in some black market, smuggling operation. I told you he could nearly always lay his hands on a bottle or two of cognac. Although if that was it one would have thought there’d be gendarmes present, not only Boches. As for your Boche, I think I know that one. An Oberleutnant – young, I suppose good-looking – to a female eye?’
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