Vaguely familiar, at that.
‘Searchlight on him, sir?’
‘No. Wait…’
The intruder’s engines had stopped, and straining his eyes through night-glasses Ben realised a second before anyone else did that it definitely was the Ekhorn. He’d thought it might be – against all the actual or apparent odds. Several others had by now sprung to the same conclusion, there was a cheer or two and by this time the launch was inside the screening rocks, engines still muttering but probably going astern to take the way off her. Stopped, now. Hughes used the port-side Aldis lamp to show Iversen his way in and a minute later was using a megaphone – not the loud-hailer, which would have been louder than was necessary in this quiet night – hailing Nils Iversen, and some moments later getting a shout of, ‘Nils Iversen bad hurt. Here is Petter Jarl. We berth on you?’
‘Wait, please.’ Muttering, ‘Want him in stern-first…’
Ben offered, ‘I’ll transfer and—’
‘No. I will. Ball—’
The boats touched, port bow to port bow. Hughes jumped over – which Ben with his damaged knee might have made a mess of – had Jarl re-start his engines and turn her, bring her in stern-first then to berth on 600’s port side, where Ball with a couple of seamen secured him.
Iversen was semi-conscious – or in and out of consciousness, apparently. One of his crewmen had been killed, and they were the only casualties although the launch had been knocked about a bit – sections of gunwale, coaming, stern-post and other timbers shot away, wheelhouse holed and most of the glass in it smashed. Nothing in any way crippling or that a shipwright couldn’t fix easily enough. The crippling loss was Nils Iversen. Ball took CPO Ambrose and another PO over with a stretcher and a medical kit including morphine, and the Norwegian was manoeuvred very carefully over to 600 and down to the bunk in Hughes’ cabin. Ben, being spare, kept out of the way at this stage, but heard the story presently in the wardroom where young Jarl, shaking with nerves, gulped neat whisky while he told it. Fortunately his English wasn’t bad.
On Thursday night, finding themselves alone, Iversen had had no doubt they’d fallen astern of station, so increased speed to catch up; but failing after a reasonable period of time to re-establish contact had eventually stopped to listen for 600’s engines, heard what at first puzzled them but turned out to be a seaplane circling. The pilot must have spotted Ekhorn’s wake: from a height of only a few hundred feet it probably would have been visible, vertically downwards, a spreading white track on slate-coloured sea, even through that fog. Iversen had immediately altered course away from the nearer land, heading as if to pass outside Stadtlandet in order not to compromise the whole operation – including the escapists on shore, and this gunboat – which he would have risked doing if he’d led the Germans to Nordfjord or its vicinity. Meanwhile the seaplane had completed its circle, dropping even lower and then attacking from astern with machine-guns. Iversen left it to Jarl to con the boat from inside its wheelhouse while he and a man by the name of Sundvik manned the two Lewis guns in the open stern. Iversen was hit quite badly in the first attack; Sundvik shot dead in the second; another crewman took Sundvik’s place. Jarl had gone to help his skipper but had been told to get back to his own job – in any case it was only a scratch. The hell it was – and he was hit again in at least one other pass. The seaplane came in five or six times, and on the last run they thought they’d hit it, which could have been why it broke off the action and flew away northeastward. Iversen had been hit in the face, chest, and left arm and shoulder. He’d been unconscious for some periods, then awake and obviously in agony. No, they’d had no morphine. In a lucid period and speaking out of the undamaged side of his mouth, he’d ordered Jarl to turn inshore and get into hiding before daylight and/or the ’plane or another one came to pick them up again – which meant now, double quick – and in the event they’d lain up in a bay south-east of Stadtlandet, amongst rocks and under their camouflage netting. Ben fetched the chart and Jarl showed them the place: ‘Here. See – Hafvruskalle,’ Iversen had told him during one conscious spell. ‘Nightfall, go Nordfjord.’ Several times during the day they’d seen seaplanes searching, mainly off Stadtlandet – ‘And beyond – maybe think we go Alesund’ – and had also seen an armed trawler, almost certainly the one 600 had been very lucky not to run into. As a result of all this, as dusk approached Iversen had changed his mind, told Jarl to wait another whole day, then see about getting into Nordfjord.
Ball had said, ‘Suppose we didn’t hear any of that because we’d got going again before it started? And I did think I’d heard an aircraft some time before that – you did too, sir—’
‘And it didn’t find them – or us – at that time. Making a sweep seaward, perhaps, caught ’em on its way back – by which time there’d have been a few miles between us.’
Jarl was in a considerable state of anxiety. He looked about seventeen. Iversen had told Hughes in Lerwick that he knew the boy’s father and that he was a good lad, lacking only experience which he, Iversen, was seeing that he got. Jarl mumbling now, ‘I don’t know what now we do. Don’t know what.’ Demanding of Hughes – as if he could do more than guess – ‘Skipper goin’ die, uh?’
‘Please God not, but—’
‘Goin’ die, sure.’
No one who’d seen him could have doubted it: it was surprising he’d hung on this long. His face – jaw – was an awful mess. At about 2.00 in the morning Ben and Hughes were in the little cabin with him when he came round: there’d been a shudder through his whole body, lips drawing back on that side over clenched teeth, left eye a bloodshot slit – the other one, with most of the right side of his face, was covered in black and scarlet bandaging – breath dragging in and forcing out in hard gasps, the visible eye by then actually bulging; Ben chuntering urgent nonsense to him about getting him out of this, back to Shetland and into hospital, while Hughes administered more morphine which after a while took effect and put him out again. He was not going to live: you wouldn’t have wished it on him, either. Ben said, after he’d lost consciousness, ‘Deserves a medal anyway. Leading ’em away from us – and staying out there—’
‘I agree. I’ll try to get him one.’
‘It’d be posthumous – like Rosie’s.’
‘Rosie – that girl you were nuts about?’
‘She’s getting a George Cross. Remember you allowed her the use of this cabin – to l’Abervrac’h and back, one time?’
‘Dare say I would have. But a GC, huh! Posthumous? Ben – I didn’t know, I’m—’
‘Tell you about her, shall I?’
Chapter 10
She’d had supper in the Dog, as the locals called it, hoping Dénault might turn up early – which he did not – and Adée had taken her to the house to wait, put her feet up and sleep. ‘You look played-out, girl.’
‘If he comes, though—’
‘I’ll come or I’ll send Patrice.’ The barman, who when she’d sat down to her supper had asked her, ‘Heard what’s flying on the Préfecture?’
‘Better than that, I saw it hoisted, joined in the singing.’
Adée put in, ‘She cried, she was telling me.’
‘Adée, that was in confidence!’
‘Shows your heart’s in the right place, that’s all.’ Nodding towards Patrice: ‘For him to know it. The cretin had doubts of you. He’s—’
‘Only as one should have. A time like this, stranger walking in.’ He’d bowed, sweeping off the jockey-cap – revealing an advanced state of baldness. ‘My apologies. You identified yourself to the satisfaction of Georges, one knows.’ Replacing the cap, which was half blue, half orange. ‘Didn’t find your little girl yet?’
‘No.’ Thinking not of the fictional Juliette but of Léonie; and of Léonie, she’d come to realise, more than of Rouquet. Through naturally identifying with her, she supposed – having been there, or somewhere like it, knowing how it would be – had been – for a female almost the same age. Whe
reas Rouquet – Derek – was older, and male, and a very experienced agent who’d been chief of other SOE groups before this last one, had had years in which to condition himself mentally and physically for – the ultimate.
Plausible anyway, that he would have. Although how anyone could condition themselves to it… No, it didn’t wash. What did was simply that Léonie was so very young: self-possessed admittedly, but – little, vulnerable.
But that again was only how one saw her, thought of her, it didn’t necessarily tell you how she’d stand up to it or for how long. Nobody could be expected to hold out indefinitely. The only mercy was that after a certain length of time you’d end up dead, not only be finished with it but have triumphed.
How it seemed to others, anyway. In citations and so forth.
Adée had brought her along to the house; explaining that the old cousin although amiable enough was slightly gaga and might have refused to let her in. And that Patrice was related to them both, being a cousin of Adée’s late husband. She’d added, ‘He works with Georges.’
‘Going by last night, so must a whole crowd of them.’
‘Yes. There are some he values more than others, naturally.’
‘One thing, Adée – I’ve given your telephone number to the person I lunched with today. I had to, really – for emergencies – but I made it a condition that it was for herself alone. If she did call to leave a message for me, she’d give you her name as Jacqui.’
‘Does Georges know of her?’
‘Only what I told him and you last night.’
‘The one who lives with some specimen of SD?’
‘Not quite as bad as that sounds though. She doesn’t know anything about his work, doesn’t discuss anything of that kind – this kind – with him. All you’d need do is take the message. I’m just a lodger, you wouldn’t know my business. Except – if you like – that I’m looking for my child. I mean if you were asked by anyone at all…’
* * *
After Rosie had paid the restaurant bill, Jacqui had made the point that if Clausen should happen to be working tomorrow, not coming back to lunch, it would be pointless for Rosie to come either. Better to postpone it to the evening, or some other time.
She’d hesitated: sickened by the thought of postponement, further delay, inaction; also in regard to the ’phone number, concerned that anyone could see it wasn’t a Vincennes number. The answer was simple, though – to be ready to give up that fiction. She’d have moved, that was all. There had to be hundreds of rooming houses in this 18th Arrondissement. She’d told Jacqui it was a telephone in a café-bar not far from her lodgings, that the proprietress and the barman knew her as Jeanne-Marie Lefèvre and would pass on any message. She’d torn off a corner of the lunchtime bill, copied the number on to it and asked Jacqui to keep it to herself.
Adée had said she could use her bed, get an hour or two’s real rest, but the old cousin had already turned in, the front room consequently wasn’t in use and she thought it better to be down there, handy to the door and the street when they came for her. She’d spread the pallet again therefore, slept on it fully dressed without even a sheet over her. It was a warm little house and they didn’t open the windows much – which was why it was also stuffy and smelt of old women and old clothes.
She’d dreamt of Ben, and been woken out of it by Patrice’s insistent knocking; with Ben still in her mind but no recollection of what he and she had been doing, or where. The day would come, though – bloody would – when the two of them would be shot of everything except each other and however they mutually decided to spend the rest of their lives.
* * *
Dénault had brought with him the slightly older man who last night had taken the decision not to wait any longer for him. They were both drinking beer and were in much the same clothes they’d worn the night before: this one for instance, whom Dénault introduced as Martin Leblanc – a schoolmaster, apparently – in a blue-and-white striped shirt, dark blue tie, and the same black waistcoat. Blue-black jaw – hadn’t shaved today. There were two other men whom she recognised but they were on the point of leaving, perhaps on account of her arrival; they greeted her with handshakes, the older of them then murmuring to Dénault, ‘Until shortly, Georges.’
‘One hour. You’ll collect Bernard on your way by?’
‘Yes.’ To Leblanc then: ‘But you’re not coming?’
Rosie thinking, One hour, then he’s off. She had the feeling he wasn’t giving much attention to her business. If for instance she’d found out from Jacqui where they were being held, she’d have been counting on action now, tonight: and he, presumably, would have pleaded this prior engagement.
She had not obtained that information, though, so what the hell? Obviously he hadn’t got anything for her, either. Unless it was what they were off to now?
Fat chance. He’d have been bursting to tell her, wouldn’t he?
‘Jeanne-Marie…’
Adée, giving her a mug of ‘coffee’. Patrice was collecting empty mugs from around the room, and Dénault coming back from shutting the door behind those others.
‘Well, Jeanne-Marie.’ A large hand on her shoulder, and a smile which to her seemed patronising, big cheese sparing a moment from important matters. ‘What’s new?’
‘I was hoping you’d tell me.’
‘Well, unfortunately—’
‘Sit down, girl’: Adée.
Rosie sat – slopping her drink slightly. ‘Damn…’
‘You neither, eh? Your meeting with the woman who—’
‘I had a wild hope ten seconds ago that whatever you’re doing tonight might be connected with it.’
‘I’m sorry. But Martin here will be on his way presently to meet someone who might have information…’
Rumbling on, about the someone who might. Or, she thought, might not. Might well not. While those two might well be dead, or on the point of dying, or alive but had been tortured into spilling all the beans; while she, Rosie, would be lunching tomorrow with the man who’d done it to them, heard their screams and watched their writhings – prompting from time to time, as her Gestapo man Prinz had: ‘All right, the names and locations first. Go ahead. Then we’ll have a nice cup of tea together, isn’t that what you’d like?’ She could hear him, as she must have done about a million times in the past twelve months, those echoes in her skull: but hearing Dénault telling Leblanc now, ‘So just in case, Martin – Jeanne-Marie, correct me if I have any of this wrong – the man’s name is Rouquet, Guillaume Rouquet, middling tall, brown-haired—’
‘And a narrow, bony face. English, but his French is as fluent as your own. Léonie is French – petite, dark-haired, very pale skin, age about twenty-three. He’s forty, forty-five maybe.’ Looking meanly at Dénault: ‘Starting from scratch, are we, but leaving it to him because you’ve more pressing things to do?’
‘Not exactly – not from scratch, and I have initiated some enquiries – regrettably without result as yet – and I’m not leaving it to Martin, no, only ensuring that when he meets this individual tonight he’ll ask the right questions.’ He paused, lighting a cigarette. ‘Also because the professor knows all our business, you see, he’d step into my shoes if necessary – and do a better job than I do.’ Addressing him, then: ‘First thing, Martin, is to find where they’re being held and by whom, the second to decide how best to get them out. Most likely places of detention being of course Rue des Saussaies, and not Avenue Foch, that’s empty now, but conceivably Rue Lauriston or Rue de la Pompe.’
These people were immersed in preparations for an insurrection, Rosie thought, probably didn’t give what Ben would call a tinker’s fart for whatever might be happening to any British agents. Any moment now Dénault would admit to Leblanc that for all anyone knew, those two were already dead or on their way east; there was barely a chance they were still in Paris and alive. Which of course might be true; but if he said it, it would amount to telling him not to waste too much time on this…
She put her mug down, said to Dénault, ‘As you say, Rue Lauriston. Lafont. Last night you didn’t have time to discuss it, but the point is I met Lafont – by pure chance – yesterday afternoon.’ She told Leblanc, ‘I’ll explain. You haven’t heard this, and it could be relevant.’
‘Unfortunately,’ – Dénault – ‘we don’t have all that much time even now. But—’
‘You and Martin are not going in the same direction now, you said, perhaps he has time?’
‘All right, but—’
‘Listen – please. There’s a young Frenchwoman by name of Jacqueline Clermont whom a year ago I recruited as an informant. She had valuable connections in an area of great importance, and she played her part well, gave us value for – for money and support. But that’s over and she’s now in Paris, living with an officer of the SD called Gerhardt Clausen. They have the top floor of a house in Rue de Passy and Clausen, wherever he operates, has responsibility for the custody and interrogation of the people I’m looking for. That much is fact, the information was passed to London and was part of my briefing a few days ago. So I’ve been in touch with her, we lunched together today, and she’s agreed to back me up as just a friend she happened to run into – that is, when I lunch with her and him in their flat tomorrow.’
‘God Almighty …’
She looked at Dénault, ‘It’s important enough to take the risk, that’s all.’ Back to Leblanc: ‘She’ll help me to this extent, but she won’t inform on him – says she doesn’t know anything about his work in any case. All I can do is try to be accepted on that basis and maybe find out what he’s doing and where.’
‘But Lafont comes into it?’
‘He may do. On my way into Paris yesterday I located the house on Rue de Passy, and he – Lafont – was just leaving. I’d no idea who it was but I described him to Georges last night and he said immediately: Lafont. And I’ve heard of him, of course, it just hadn’t occurred to me, there and then. But today I elicited from Jacqui that he and Clausen aren’t exactly friends but that – quote – their paths cross. And he’s chasing her—’
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