The English Agent

by Clare Harvey

  He’d paid the woman the full price, anyway, apologising as he buttoned up his clothes and left. She’d smiled, pecked him on both cheeks, said something in French that he couldn’t understand. He’d been cold, trudging back through the curfew-empty streets, with the wind working its way down the nape of his neck. He’d been cold, but hot too: hot with frustration, hot with anger at his inability to control his emotions.

  He closed the front door of 84 avenue Foch behind him and began to climb the main stairs, feet clomping, echoing through the marble-floored hallway.

  He ran up the stairs to his room, not bothering to turn on the light, and threw himself onto his bed. He lay there for a while, fists balled, letting his breathing slow: anger, frustration and unsatiated desire squashed into a tangled ball in his gut. The Frenchwoman had been there for the taking. What was the matter with him? Why couldn’t he be a man about it? He banged his head backwards, denting the pillow and staring up into the blackness towards the ceiling. Above those wooden boards, just above his head, that’s where the English girl was. But she’d be asleep now, wouldn’t she? The wind rattled the shutters of his room, as if the night were trying to break in.

  She wouldn’t even be there, but for him, he realised. If he’d told her what he knew, that her colleagues had already been shot, she wouldn’t have agreed to continue with the Funkspiel. She wouldn’t be transmitting her daily messages, coming down with him to Kieffer’s office to play the piano. She would have been taken away, to one of the camps Josef talked about.

  The wind died down again, and the room was silent. That was when he heard the floorboards starting to creak above his head, the sound moving to the other side of the room, and then back again. She was awake – pacing above him. If he told her the truth, he’d be putting her in danger. But what kind of man lied to a woman he cared about?

  He stood up, and half ran towards the door and on up the stairs to the attic floor where her room was. He knocked first, then put the key in the lock. She was standing in the middle of the room, almost exactly where he’d left her, hours earlier. This time he didn’t hesitate. ‘Your colleagues are dead.’

  Edie

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Gerhardt said.

  She looked at him standing there in the doorway in his half-buttoned uniform, like a ghost. ‘How?’ she said.

  ‘Shot,’ he replied, his voice thick and low. ‘But not by us, by the Gestapo. I’m so sorry.’

  Felix and Justine, bullet holes leaking blood, expressions blank in death, sprawled on a dirty kerb somewhere in the Paris back streets. It was too easy to imagine. ‘When?’

  ‘I d-don’t know.’ He hesitated. She noticed his stammer had returned. ‘Not long after Kieffer had them brought in. I should have told you. I feel disloyal for not having said. But I thought if I told you . . .’ His voice trailed off. His arms hung limply at his side. She couldn’t make out the expression on his face. The distance between them seemed vast.

  All that time she’d been playing along with the Funkspiel, thinking she was saving them, and they were dead. The fig-leaf of humanity she’d clung to was gone. Justine: dead. And what about little Violette? It was unbearable. All this time she’d spent on their wretched radio game and she was nothing better than that Lysander pilot: a double agent and a traitor. ‘Thank you for telling me,’ she said, wondering why he had. She should have known – had she known, in her heart?

  ‘What will you do?’ he said, and she watched him take half a step towards her, across the bare boards.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied.

  ‘Will you stop cooperating? Because if you do, if you’re no longer any use to them, then Kieffer will have you sent to Karlsruhe.’

  He took another step forward as he spoke, arms raised, reaching out to her, but he still seemed so far away. She didn’t care about being sent to a German prison camp, not now everything was over. But she realised that if she withdrew her cooperation, Kieffer would want to know why. And she couldn’t let on that it was Gerhardt who’d told her the truth; she couldn’t implicate Gerhardt.

  ‘They’ll have me sent to Karlsruhe anyway, once the Funkspiel is over,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ he said. Another step – he was closer still – if she reached out now she could almost touch him. ‘My uncle is very influential in Berlin. I’m sure I can persuade him to find some kind of propaganda position for you, in broadcasting. You know, like the one you British call Lord Haw-Haw has. I could get you away from here. I could keep you safe. I can help you, I’m sure I can.’

  Edie took a step back now. She shook her head. She saw his hands move up towards his face, and heard the sound of his breath quickly escaping: a cross between a sigh and a sob.

  She took two quick steps towards him across the rough boards and was there. She reached up and put her arms round his neck and leant into him, then lifted her face to meet his.

  Gerhardt

  He could smell the soft, musky scent of her as she pulled him close, her hair smooth against his cheek. And for a while he just held her there as the moonlight frosted the barred window and the winter wind sighed in. They didn’t kiss, not at first, just held each other close – so tight it almost hurt: her fingertips squeezing his shoulder blades through his jacket, his hands feeling the warmth of her flesh underneath the thick cloth.

  He closed his eyes, shutting out the metallic moonshine, burying his face in her hair. It felt like finding something precious that had been lost for a long time. He could feel her heartbeat, synchronised with his own: in-out, in-out. Eventually she shifted her head, moving her hair away. His lips grazed her cheek, powder smooth, and then their lips met.

  There was no awkwardness. She kissed him the way he’d always wanted to be kissed: her soft lips, the taste of her – it was like slaking a thirst. He ran his fingers down her back, feeling the curve of her body beneath the harsh fabric, moving his hands downwards.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he said.

  ‘Now,’ she said, tugging his shirt from his trousers. ‘Now, if only now.’

  They fell together onto the thin bed, limbs tangling: the taste of her. ‘Your name,’ he said, lips against her neck, hands running over her smooth skin. ‘I can’t do this without knowing your real name.’

  ‘Edie,’ she said, her arms pulling him closer in. ‘My name is Edie.’

  Afterwards he remembered thinking how easily they fitted together: her head resting in the space underneath his shoulder, arm lightly across his chest, their sweat slowly drying as their skin began to cool. He wanted to tell her he loved her, but sleep came suddenly, like a drug, before he had the chance to say it. And with sleep came the memory-dream.

  The girl was waving from the kerb. The chauffeur pulled the car in beside her. The girl walked over to the car and leant in towards the open window, smiling. Her broad mouth had lots of very white teeth. ‘Yes?’ said Gerhardt’s mother.

  ‘Oh, I do apologise. I thought this was the Ambassador’s car,’ said the girl, her smile dropping away.

  ‘It is,’ said Gerhardt’s mother. There was a pause.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you,’ said the girl, beginning to turn away . . . The chauffeur got out and held the door open for the young woman. Gerhardt shuffled along the seat to make room for the extra passenger. The leather was hot and sticky in the gap where his shorts ended. The young woman got in beside him. She smelled of perfume, but not the same one as his mother’s, muskier somehow. She shook hands with his mother, both of them leaning across him. He looked beyond the briefly clasped hands, out through the windscreen to see Hans, the chauffeur, furling up the black-and-red swastika flag that hung from the stubby flagpole on the car bonnet so that it no longer showed . . .

  Edie

  He should never have left the door unlocked, Edie justified, disentangling herself from Gerhardt’s sleep-heavy limbs and sliding out of bed. Her pyjamas lay in a heap where she’d left them in her urgency. Now she pulled them on, glancing back at the
bed where Gerhardt lay, chest gently rising and falling with the rhythm of sleep. She paused to pull the blankets up to his chin, smoothing them down so he’d stay warm. And she let herself smile at what she’d done – at what they’d done together, alone in the night.

  It had been so different, she thought. That time with the American he’d pushed and held and forced and it had hurt. And afterwards she’d felt dirty and empty and dead inside, as if he’d stolen her soul. But this was so different, like a gift. Like springtime, when colour starts to seep out into the world, and the air gets warm. It was like that, inside her, now.

  She almost couldn’t go through with her plan. All she wanted to do was slip back under the covers with him, lose herself in the warmth and the scent of his body next to hers, the luxury of togetherness. But she forced herself away, across the room towards the door. This was her chance. There wasn’t much time.

  She padded down the narrow servants’ staircase, the lino smooth-cool under her bare feet. Somewhere a clock chimed three times. Round the corner and along the corridor: she knew the way. Here: she tried the door handle. Her fingers, still bruised and sore from wrangling with the nail file on the bar, wouldn’t grasp properly, and at first she thought the door was locked. But when she tried again there was a click and the door gave. She was in Dr Goetz’s room. The windows were shuttered, and it was very dark without the moonlight, but she knew she couldn’t risk turning on the lights. However, she also knew that her own wireless transmitter would be open on the table, ready for her morning transmission. She closed the door carefully behind her and made her way across the floor: five steps diagonally to the table, the wool of the rug soft beneath the balls of her feet. She pulled out her chair without making a sound, then sat down and reached forwards to click on her machine. The wind shook the shutters, making her jump. She told herself to calm down as she listened for the familiar throaty hiss as the transmitter came alive. She reached for the contact and began, practised enough now to create, transpose and code a message in her head, without needing to write anything down.

  She knew what she had to say; she knew what she had to tell Miss Atkins in London. She had to trust that Miss Atkins would do the right thing, at last.

  For a moment, when she heard the voices outside, she was going to carry on. Because what did it matter if they found her now? It was all over anyway. All she hoped to do was salvage something from the mess, stop London being an unwitting player in the Nazis’ radio game. But, as the front door banged shut downstairs, she realised that, if she was caught here, they’d check to see how she got out of her room, and they’d go up and discover Gerhardt there in oblivious sleep. And what would happen to him if he were caught in the English girl’s bed, when the English girl was down in Dr Goetz’s office sending messages back to London? She doubted if even the influential uncle could save him then. So she shut down the machine and ran upstairs to her room, launching herself at the sleeping figure in the bed and shaking him awake. ‘Quick, the others are back. Leave and lock the door behind you!’ He staggered up, bundling up clothes and boots, and was gone, the key clicking in the lock.

  She fell into the warm space Gerhardt had left behind, fitting her own body into the hollow he’d made, and wishing he were still there to share it with her. She shut her eyes, listening to the soft sounds of his footsteps and the thud of his colleagues’ boots. Yes, he made it back to his room in time; she had saved him.

  She thought about what she’d managed to send. What would Miss Atkins think when she read it? Would it make any difference, now? She sighed and waited for the release of sleep.

  Chapter 16

  Gerhardt

  ‘Not so fast, young man.’ Kieffer strode out of his office, putting out a hand to stop him. Gerhardt had been late for breakfast and was on his way upstairs. It was time for her morning transmission. He had to be there. He had to find out what course she’d chosen, now she knew that her colleagues were dead. Was there a chance that she’d go along with his plan, say nothing, and that he could persuade the Count to put in a good word for her with his friends in Berlin? Was it really possible? There had been no time to talk when he’d had to rush back to his room last night, and he hadn’t had a chance to see her yet today. ‘Boemelburg’s asked for you. I’ve just got off the phone with him. He’s back in Paris for a few days on a special assignment and needs an assistant. You can drive, can’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gerhardt said. ‘But—’

  ‘I thought so. That’s good. I’ll get Josef to take you straight over.’

  But she’d be waiting for him. He needed to see her. ‘What about the Funkspiel?’

  ‘We can manage. Dr Goetz speaks some English, as you know. In any case, it’s merely a matter of continuity now. We don’t require any further information. The testing is almost complete at the prototype depot. They will shift the whole thing out for production in a new location any day now. We can spare you, Vogt, don’t worry.’

  He felt as if he were caught at a checkpoint, Kieffer’s arm a barrier to a forbidden zone. ‘Should I pack some things?’ he said, thinking that if he was allowed past to get to his room, he could at least slip away to see her.

  ‘No, I think you should go immediately. Boemelburg was very insistent. We can always send Josef over with some luggage later.’

  It was impossible.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Gerhardt said, turning to go back downstairs.

  Edie

  The pillow still smelled of him. No regrets, she thought, luxuriating in the memory. No regrets either for what she’d done with Gerhardt or for the message she’d secretly sent back to London afterwards. Even though she hadn’t completed it, it might be enough to warn Baker Street. She thought of Felix and Justine. Nothing could bring them back. But she’d done the right thing, at last.

  Edie lay back on the bed, waiting. He’d be here, soon, knocking on her door and taking her down to the coding room for her scheduled transmission. In the distance she could hear the barking shouts of the morning parade and imagined the grey uniforms swirling round the Arc de Triomphe and down avenue Foch. He always came at this time. And after doing the usual transmission work, they’d go down to Kieffer’s office, and play and sing for him, practise the song he’d had them preparing for some staff party he was planning.

  So long as London didn’t respond to the message she’d sent secretly last night. Miss Atkins would understand the intent, wouldn’t she? Edie had to put her faith in Miss Atkins; there was nothing else she could do. She didn’t want to think about what would happen next, after the Funkspiel was over. For now there was just this morning, and him, and that would be enough. The sunshine was a warm block of yellow across the centre of her body as she stretched out, waiting.

  There was the sound of the key twisting in the lock – odd that she hadn’t heard his boots on the stairs. And odd, too, that he hadn’t knocked, as usual. But perhaps after last night he’d decided to dispense with that formality.

  The door opened to reveal Frau Bertelsmann, frowning, red-faced from the climb, jerking her head to request Edie follow her. Edie pushed herself out of the sunshine. Where was Gerhardt?

  Gerhardt

  Gerhardt breathed in icy air mixed with petrol fumes and his boots crunched on the driveway. He got into the back seat and slammed the car door behind him. Josef’s pointy face regarded him in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘I didn’t see you at breakfast,’ he said.

  ‘I was late; I overslept,’ Gerhardt replied as the car lurched backwards up the driveway.

  ‘We called in for you, but the girl said you’d gone.’ Gerhardt felt a sudden lurch of fear. They’d been up to her room? Then he realised that Josef was talking about the French prostitute in the brothel. Josef waggled the wheel with one hand as they manoeuvred out of the wrought-iron gates. ‘What time did you get back?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Gerhardt replied. ‘A little before you, I suppose. I heard you coming in.’ It wasn’t a lie. He had heard them com
ing in. He’d heard their footfalls on the stairwell as he slipped into his room and under the covers, naked and cold, with his bundled-up uniform and boots in a pile on the floor. And he’d waited, holding his breath until he heard them going to their own rooms. ‘I didn’t notice the time.’

  They swung round into the street. ‘And did you do the deed?’ Josef asked. The sun hung like an overripe fruit to the right of the Arc de Triomphe, the sunlight syrupy-yellow. Black figures were clustering beneath the monument, like ants. Gerhardt could hear muffled shouts in the distance. ‘Bugger, I forgot about the morning parade,’ said Josef, jamming the gears and turning the car round, away from the gathering ranks of soldiers. ‘Well, did you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gerhardt, not looking at Josef’s face in the mirror, turning instead to look at the lines of uniformed men, beginning their inexorable march down avenue Foch behind them.

  ‘I told you Paris would make a man of you, mate,’ Josef said as they accelerated away in the direction of the Bois. And Gerhardt remembered that other car, that other time as they sped away.

  The girl was waving from the kerb . . . The chauffeur pulled the car in beside her . . . He looked beyond the briefly clasped hands out through the windscreen to see Hans, the chauffeur, furling up the black-and-red swastika flag that hung from the stubby flagpole on the car bonnet so that it no longer showed.

  The roads were bumpy and he was shunted alternately into his mother and the young woman as they coasted a succession of potholes and sped into town. He looked up at the young woman as they drove: her brown hair was a smooth, neat curve against her pale neck, reminding him of the carved wood on the balustrade at his father’s house here in Romania. It was very different from his mother’s hair, which was fair and wispy, pinned up in a bun that was forever coming loose, so strands played across her cheeks and her brow . . .