The English Agent

by Clare Harvey

  ‘You’re late,’ he hissed as the waiter pulled out Gerhardt’s chair for him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Father, I—’ Gerhardt began, but noticing the look on the Count’s face quickly corrected himself. ‘Uncle. I’m sorry, Uncle. I didn’t realise the time.’ He must never call him Father in public: that was the rule – had always been the rule – how idiotic to have forgotten it now, here.

  ‘You didn’t realise the time – what about the watch I gave you for your eighteenth birthday last year?’

  ‘It got smashed in the air raid; remember, the night Franz—’

  The Count waved an impatient hand. ‘Even so, you should have made an effort to be early, on a day like today.’

  ‘I was helping a girl with her suitcase,’ Gerhardt said.

  ‘A girl! Stupid, reckless, boy – we can’t have you messing this up for the sake of a girl. Never mind. Luckily for you, Boemelburg is late, too. Ah, here he comes.’ The Count’s granite features cracked into a smile.

  Gerhardt looked round. A rotund man in a thick coat and fedora had just entered the restaurant. Two waiters and the maître d’ were already at his side, removing outer garments and proffering clean white handkerchiefs for him to wipe the raindrops from his puffy cheeks. Gerhardt stood, chair scraping, ready to be introduced to the man who could determine his future.

  Edie

  ‘You must be insane!’ said Justine.

  Before Edie could respond, the man with the blond hair butted in. ‘A self-respecting Frenchwoman would never let a German carry her luggage, never. And you led him right to our door.’ He ran his fingers through his hair, so it rose in tousled spikes. Edie opened her mouth to reply, but he continued, turning to Justine. ‘What were they thinking about, sending her? She doesn’t have the common sense she was born with!’

  Justine nodded vigorously. ‘If only Gilbert were here. If only he hadn’t gone and got himself—’

  ‘Please, let’s not talk about Gilbert.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but there is no kind of – how do you say – control in London. I mean, how was she recruited? Was she just plucked off the end of a line of schoolgirls waiting at a bus stop?’ Justine snorted.

  They continued talking about her as if she weren’t there, jabbing fingers in her direction, gabbling in their outraged Parisian slang about her obvious shortcomings. Next to her was the suitcase containing her belongings that the very helpful young German had offered to carry for her, when she’d paused to look at the window above the restaurant. He couldn’t speak French, but he’d made it clear: here was a young woman struggling with a heavy case in the driving rain, and here was a fit young man, offering help. Refusal often offends, she remembered Miss Atkins saying once, as she handed over the suitcase, handle slippery with rainwater. He’d smiled and nodded, taking it from her, lifting it high to show his strength. And she’d thought, glimpsing him sideways through the rain, that he didn’t look an awful lot like she’d imagined an enemy soldier. He’d carried her case across the street, through the archway, and up the stone steps to the room, giving a short bow before leaving her as the door opened.

  Justine and the other man were still talking about the parlous state of things in London, about how the agent handlers were a clueless set of morons, about how they had no chance against the invaders at this rate. Edie stood, listening, dripping puddles of rainwater onto the bare floorboards. She wiped the drops off her face, and with it came a creamy smear of Miss Atkins’ powder. She looked round the room. It was small and square, with just one window facing onto the place de la Madeleine, the one she’d seen from the street. She noticed now that the lilies she’d seen weren’t real. They were made of some kind of fabric, and shoved into a cracked jam jar on the sill. Justine and the other man were standing near the window, half blocking the light. There was a small, bare fireplace. In place of a fire, a camping stove hissed, a metal coffee pot on top just coming up to boil. There was a clock on the mantelshelf; tarnished metal cherubs slumped up against the face. From downstairs she could just hear the clatter and murmur of the busy restaurant, smell the faint scent of braised meat wafting up. In the middle of the room was a round café-style table with chairs, and on top of the table her other suitcase, containing the wireless set. There was an armchair in the far corner of the room, shrouded in darkness. As she looked, a shadow detached itself from the gloom, standing up from the chair and walking towards her. Her first impression was of height and length: a very tall man, with a long nose and dark hair slicked off a high forehead. As he came closer, she noticed he was limping, and there were dark half-moons underneath his eyes.

  ‘Personally, I think it rather clever that you got old Boche to porter for you. And if anyone watching thought you were a collaborator, then frankly all to the good, eh?’ he said in English, holding out a hand. ‘How d’you do, Felix.’ Edie shook his large hand. The handshake was firm and swift, his palm dry as paper. ‘But perhaps Justine has a point, and we should continue our conversation elsewhere. Shall we?’ He indicated with his head towards the doorway. He wanted to take her back outside, to the rain and the German soldiers, just when she’d finally thought she’d reached safety.

  ‘The wireless,’ she began, looking at the suitcase on the table.

  ‘Justine and Claude will take it. You’ll be staying at hers tonight, just for your first night. Didn’t she mention it?’ he said. No, Edie thought, blinking raindrops from her lashes, she didn’t mention it. She didn’t mention anything. And then she realised of course not: the less she knew, the safer she was; scooting off with the wireless transmitter, telling her nothing of the cell’s plans was Justine’s way of protecting her. ‘And your suitcase too,’ Felix continued. ‘Claude has transport – one of the benefits of being part of a family that runs a garage is having access to spare vehicles, and better still, ones that belong to someone else, eh?’ He chuckled and Claude joined in, looking across the room at him as if he were a god.

  Felix embraced Justine in the French way before they left, and Edie did the same, kissing her on both cheeks, smelling the lemon-tobacco scent of her, feeling her bony fingers briefly grip her upper arm. As Edie pulled away from Justine she saw Felix kiss Claude on both cheeks, and then – surprisingly – on the mouth. ‘Be careful now, chéri,’ Felix said to Claude. ‘After you’ve delivered the luggage, go straight to Café Colisee. I’ll be there before curfew.’

  ‘Promise?’ said Claude, flushing, ‘because last time you said that—’

  Felix placed a finger over his lips to silence him. ‘Shh, I promise,’ he said.

  Edie didn’t know where to look. She glanced at Justine, who frowned hard, and turned away. When Edie said goodbye to Claude he merely grazed her cheek with his own, and she felt the soft prickle of his stubble as he released her, eager for her to leave.

  Felix opened the door and followed her down the stone stairwell and into the alley – the same alley where just a few minutes earlier a young German had walked beside her, close enough to touch. Her breathing was shallow, and she was finding it hard to concentrate on what Felix was saying, but he seemed as relaxed as if he were on his way to a good lunch at his London club. ‘Don’t mind those two,’ he said as they walked out of the side alley and into place de la Madeleine. ‘Justine can be a funny old stick at first and Claude is jealous of just about anyone I spend time with, the darling boy.’ Edie smiled as if she understood perfectly, even though she felt as though the whole world was disintegrating around her.

  The rain was still sluicing down as they turned left past the Lucas Carton frontage. Edie wondered briefly about the young German who’d carried her case so gallantly. She’d been too petrified to even make eye contact with him, but she’d noticed his hands as he’d taken her case – how his fingernails were bitten right down to the quick, just like her own. Had he been on his way to lunch? she wondered. Was he in there now, drinking beer and eating sausages, or whatever it was they served in the Paris restaurants now the Germans were here? She foll
owed Felix’s lanky silhouette as he loped awkwardly onto Boulevard Malesherbes.

  Gerhardt

  The formalities over, the three men sat down. The restaurant was packed with officers and expensive-looking women. Glancing round, Gerhardt noticed red lipstick and sculpted hairstyles, and he thought of Lisel’s shiny plaits and freckled nose and wondered if he’d ever take her anywhere like this. Outside the rain pelted down. Boemelburg told the waiter they’d all have his usual, without even glancing down at the menu. Gerhardt was relieved. He didn’t mind what he ate, just so long as he didn’t have to choose from the curly writing on the vast cream card; it was all in French, and he understood barely a word. The Count scanned the wine list and ordered a burgundy.

  Gerhardt sat still and upright, hands resting on the damp wool of his trousers. He looked out of the window at the grey-black mess of the wintry cityscape. The colours reminded him of the carriage full of newly conscripted soldiers he’d travelled down on the train with. The Count had come separately, from Berlin in his car.

  ‘. . . isn’t that right, young man?’ The deep voice interrupted his reverie. Gerhardt started.

  ‘Yes, Uncle,’ he replied, not knowing what he’d acknowledged.

  Boemelburg motioned to the wine waiter, waving a pudgy index finger. ‘You never mentioned you had a nephew when we worked together in Moscow,’ he said, watching the waiter pouring the burgundy into the glass. ‘Such a handsome young lad, too,’ he said, swilling the wine around before lifting the glass to his lips. He sipped it, made an ‘Mmm’ sound, and nodded his satisfaction to the waiter, before looking directly at Gerhardt. Boemelburg’s eyes were small and very dark, almost lost in the folds of his face. Gerhardt thought of raisins in Stollen dough at Christmas time.

  ‘I don’t generally like to mix work with my personal life,’ the Count replied as the waiter filled their glasses with the blood-red liquid. ‘However, I thought a boy with his talents would be more use to you here than being sent to the Russian front,’ he continued, picking up his glass.

  ‘I don’t think anything would be much use on the Russian front, the way things seem to be going. Not so?’ Boemelburg replied, taking a large swig of wine.

  ‘Yes indeed,’ the Count said, and the two older men shook their heads and pressed their lips into hard expressions.

  Gerhardt tried a sip of the burgundy. He didn’t really like the taste of it, preferring the golden foam-topped beer they had back home. He stared down at where a drop of wine had landed on the thick white tablecloth, spreading like ink on blotting paper, turning it sunset-pink. The rain still pattered, making him think of the percussive arrangement to Holst’s Second Suite in F. Boemelburg and the Count had started talking about him, almost as if he weren’t there: discussing his school grades, his membership of Hitler Youth, his facility for music and singing, and, of course, his fluency in English. Staring out at the rainswept place, Gerhardt wondered how his father – ‘uncle’ – knew quite so much about him. It wasn’t as if he spent any time with them. He was always away with the diplomatic service. He’d been in Romania when Gerhardt was little – they used to holiday there in the summers – and after that he was Ambassador in Moscow, until the Russian conflict began, when he’d been pulled back to some desk-job in Berlin. They saw him occasionally, in passing between the castle he was renovating in the East – Burg Falkenburg – and Berlin. At least he’d made it to Franz’s funeral, Gerhardt thought, watching raindrops running like tears down the steamed glass.

  ‘. . . aren’t you, Gerhardt?’ The Count’s voice was suddenly loud.

  ‘I’m sorry, Uncle, could you repeat that?’ Gerhardt said. He’d stopped listening, thinking that either Boemelburg owed his father a favour, or the other way round. He couldn’t be sure which, except that it was clear he was merely a commodity in this horse-trading.

  ‘I was just telling Boemelburg about your English language skills,’ the Count said. ‘The boy’s mother was born in Cape Town,’ he added, turning to Boemelburg.

  ‘British Colonial?’ Boemelburg raised an eyebrow and tilted his head on its axis.

  ‘By birth only,’ the Count replied.

  Boemelburg nodded. ‘A demonstration would be nice. Can he speak some now? Can you speak some English, young man?’ Boemelburg again fixed Gerhardt with his curranty eyes.

  Gerhardt shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘A demonstration?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Boemelburg said as the waiter arrived with steaming dishes of horseradish soup. ‘Say something in English for me. I’d like to hear your accent.’

  The waiter began to slide the soup in front of them. The Count was looking at him through narrowed eyes. Mother would be so upset if he messed up this interview, Gerhardt thought. She hadn’t wanted him to join the Army – she’d already lost one son to the British. When the Count had suggested there might be something for him with the SD in Paris, she had almost smiled, for the first time in months.

  Aware of the expectant silence, Gerhardt clawed back through memories: something in English to showcase to the SD boss: what, though? There was a poem that Mother taught him, he remembered, clearing his throat. Yes, that would do it: ‘If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you,’ he began.

  ‘Stand up, boy,’ the Count said. Gerhardt stood. It felt as if the whole room were watching him.

  ‘I-if you can t-trust,’ he started again. Nerves made him stammer sometimes. He could hear the Count’s quiet tut of impatience. He mustn’t get this wrong. He looked out of the window, into the watery-grey outside, took a deep breath, and continued: ‘If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you . . .’

  Through the falling rain he could see the spot on the square where he’d caught up with that girl and taken her case, and where she’d looked up with her drenched, anxious face. ‘If you can dream, and not make dreams your master . . .’ he continued, ignoring the crowded restaurant behind him, and concentrating on the English words as they formed and fell from his lips. ‘If you can make one heap of all your winnings and risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss . . .’ He wondered now where she’d been going with that heavy case. Visiting relatives? Moving house? Perhaps she was new to the city as well. Perhaps she was as nervous and awkward as he was. ‘If you can walk with crowds and keep your virtue . . .’ A shadow was passing the plate glass in front of him: the figure of a man, walking quickly through the storm, limping. And, just behind him, the slight scurrying figure of a young woman, a rope of red hair escaping from underneath her patterned headscarf. It was her, the girl from earlier on. But where was her case now? And who was the man with her? ‘If you can fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds’ worth of distance run . . .’ The two figures sped past like ghosts and were gone. ‘Yours is the earth and everything that’s in it, and – which is more – you’ll be a man, my son!’

  Gerhardt heard applause. He turned. Boemelburg was clapping him. ‘Kipling, very good,’ he said. As Gerhardt sat down he noticed the Count hiding a proud smile behind his unfurled napkin, and he knew he’d done well enough. The job of English interpreter for the Sicherheitsdienst in Paris was his for the taking.

  Vera

  ‘And this is the chap I was telling you about.’ Buckmaster ushered her across the room to where a stocky man stood with one arm draped casually across the mantelshelf. The man was talking to Tonkin, who was leaning against the corner of a table. Winter-bare tree branches traced chaotic shapes beyond the large windows, as if Portman Square had been crumpled like paper and then hastily smoothed out again. The man was saying something to Tonkin, and Tonkin laughed, throwing back his head and hooting. The man looked over at Buckmaster and Vera, approaching across the patterned carpet. Vera’s stomach rumbled. She cleared her throat to cover up the sound. ‘Dericourt, this is Miss Vera Atkins. Miss Atkins, Monsieur Henri Dericourt,’ said Buckmaster.

  Dericourt held out a hand. ‘A pleasure, Miss Atkins,’ he said, holding her hand for a moment more t
han was necessary and looking into her eyes. His face was on a level with hers, but he had the muscular build of a weight lifter, and his bulk made him appear larger than he was. She ungripped her hand. ‘Mr Dericourt,’ she said.

  Vera took out her cigarettes and offered them round. Buckmaster and Tonkin – both pipe smokers – refused, but this new Frenchman, Dericourt, took one. His fingers were stubby and capable-looking, like a mechanic’s. He rolled the cigarette between thumb and forefinger as if testing it for something. Vera found herself thinking that his hands were nothing like Dick’s, which were long and tapered, then wondered why on earth she should be making that comparison. She kept a photograph of Dick in her cigarette case, but his face was hidden behind the ranks of cigarettes. She snapped the case shut and put it back in her handbag. Dericourt pulled out a silver Zippo lighter, with something engraved on the side. Vera had to lean a little towards him to catch the flame in his cupped palm. ‘Sobranie,’ Dericourt said, regarding the gold-banded cigarette filter as he inhaled. ‘You have good judgement, Miss Atkins.’

  Vera was thinking of Dick – darling Dick – finally coming round to the idea of marriage: yes, she had good judgement. ‘Indeed,’ Vera replied, giving Dericourt a nod.

  ‘Dericourt’s just come from France,’ Buckmaster said, insinuating himself between them.

  ‘Really?’ said Vera, regarding Dericourt through a veil of smoke. He held her gaze steadily. His open face and thickly lashed button eyes gave nothing away.

  ‘He says he’s happy to fly Lysander flights into Occupied France for us,’ Buckmaster continued, ‘so we wouldn’t have to rely entirely on parachute drops. Lysanders are small enough to land on improvised strips in farmers’ fields. Imagine that!’

  ‘Imagine,’ said Vera, not turning to Buckmaster, still looking at Dericourt. He had the tanned, weather-beaten face of a peasant, but those workman’s fingers were clean and manicured. ‘So, you’re a pilot.’ Vera spoke French to Dericourt. ‘Why us and not the RAF?’ She was thinking about Dick: tall, fair and handsome in his smoky-blue RAF uniform that day. Could it be three years ago already?