‘As a matter of fact – yes, it is.’
‘Englishman?’
‘Australian. A sailor.’
‘Here we are. First name Ben – easy, B-E-N – second name—’
‘Q-U-A-R-R-Y.’
‘Got It. Good guy, is he?’
‘What d’you think?’ She and Jacqui both laughing. Rosie thinking – again – Not so good that I’d let you within arm’s length of him…
* * *
They’d seen one barricade – hastily backed out of that street and followed the truck on yet another diversion – but apart from that hadn’t been stopped or had a shot fired at them. None that had made itself felt, anyway. Had the Seine behind them now, Bois de Vincennes too; the Marne was to be crossed next, at or near Joinville. Clausen, she construed, had quite genuinely accepted what he now saw as inevitable – that he’d become a prisoner-of-war. His tone and attitude – in that last exchange with her, for instance – had been far less stiff and posed…
Happy at the prospect of being out of it?
There was also, of course, what he’d said about his experience having been all with France and the French, so that henceforth he mightn’t pull much weight. That would be a factor – that he’d virtually be out of a job.
He wasn’t talking now, only concentrating on staying close behind the truck. They’d been separated a couple of times by overtaking vehicles, but never for long. Hadn’t been doing badly either, she thought. Then thought again – double-take, seeing it was now 8.15… actually 8.17. If ETA Bazoches had been 8.45 or 9 o’clock – Morice’s guess – they weren’t doing so well at all.
Jacqui had the map. Rosie asked her, ‘How far from here, d’you think?’
‘Not sure where we are, exactly.’
‘Let me see?’
Murmuring, ‘Some map-reader…’ But – about an hour to go, maybe – barring major hold-ups.
‘Gerhardt – if you pushed up closer behind, think they might step on it a bit?’
‘I’ll try.’
Foot down, closing up. Then – it was working. An extra five – ten – kph. She leaned back, closed her eyes. Knowing it wasn’t likely that Yvette would be still alive, more probable that the butler Brançion had lied, that Yvette, like Courtland, had been tortured to death and that her remains were in the grounds of the house in Rue de la Pompe.
All of this, therefore, based on – not even hope, more a pretence of hope.
Ignore it, though. Carry on pretending. Face it when the moment came, but until then stick to the pretence. For more positive and pleasurable thinking meanwhile – the bright dawn at the end of all of this – in the shortest of words: Ben. B-E-N. And Q-U-A-R-R-Y. Picturing him, conjuring up his image: promising herself that when she was back and he was too she’d really work on it – tell him let’s do it now, this bloody minute – post the banns or whatever it is one does – before they drag us apart again.
* * *
They would have married, if it hadn’t been for this job of hers. The intention had been there, all right – for a year, at least. Not before that, admittedly. That waste of time had been her silly fault, not his. They’d met in the SOE building in Baker Street in mid-February of 1942, a day and a half after her husband Johnny had been shot down and killed, and the day Singapore had fallen to the Japanese. She’d had her problems, and he’d had some cause to celebrate – oh, getting back to sea, despite injuries sustained in action which for some time had confined him to shore duties – and they’d got plastered together that night, woken next morning in a single bed in the Charing Cross Hotel.
He’d said he’d sleep in the bath. Afterwards denied having even thought of it. Then not seen him for a year – had gone to a lot of effort not to. Silly cow…
She’d jerked awake. Morice had shouted, ‘Road-block!’ and Clausen had stamped on the brake: Rosie realising she’d been dozing, reminiscing in her sleep or half-sleep. In fact must have slept for quite some time. The light was fading, she had to tilt her Vacheron’s dial in close-up to read the time.
Nine-sixteen.
‘This Bazoches?’
Jacqui said carefully, ‘I think it must be. You had a good snooze, Jeanne-Marie.’ There was a cross-roads ahead, Rosie saw. No – only a turn-off to the left. No actual road-block either, only a large blue van parked with its right-hand wheels up on the verge, and gendarmes standing around – drifting aside now while waving a gazo through in the Paris direction. Fernagut’s truck had stopped close to the van, and Clausen pulled in behind it. He asked Morice, ‘You leaving us here?’
‘I am, I believe.’ He pushed his door open, said to Rosie and Jacqui, ‘Good luck, mesdames.’
‘Thank you, monsieur.’
‘Village up there on the left, I suppose.’ Rosie could see roofs and chimneys, houses half-hidden in greenery which like the roadside grass was glowing as it always did in the last of the evening light. Clausen was getting out. Fernagut talking with a group of men from the van; Clausen had the map with him, no doubt to show him Lafont’s pencilled cross, and he’d stopped there on his own, waiting for that conference in the middle of the road to finish – none of them even looking at him. To Rosie it illustrated the enormous change that seemed to have come about in a matter of just hours: SD major humbly awaiting a gendarme’s convenience. Jacqui murmured to her, ‘Through the village there, then to the left, about a kilometre along that lane, and the farm’s on the left. There’s a little river with willows along its banks.’
‘Going to tell them?’
‘Rather looks as if I might not have to, thank God.’
Fernagut and Clausen were coming back towards the car, the policeman telling him – well, telling them – ‘We’ll wait here until nine-forty – for the sake of the light, you understand. Colleagues have the farmhouse surrounded. They located it quite easily, I gather. It’s on the left, a kilometre back in that direction, on a lane we turn into from the village centre. Farmyard and outbuildings come first, then the house which they say is large; one drives in through the farmyard. You’ll want to be in there with us, of course – to take care of the young lady, if she’s there – but I would ask you to remain in your vehicle until we have established control.’
‘Already surrounded?’
‘Under observation, say. They’re placed where they could quickly block the exit with their van – another like that one – if the salauds tried to break out.’
‘I’m thinking mostly of the safety of Yvette,’ Rosie told him. ‘That’s her name, you should know it. They might try to use her as a hostage, for instance. May I ask how you’re going to do this?’
‘With doors and windows covered by marksmen, we’ll smash in at the back – south side, looks down over pasture to a river. It’ll be dark enough by then – on that side anyway. The only lighting in the house is from lamps and candles, they say.’ He peered at his watch. ‘Move from here in – fourteen minutes.’
Clausen tossed the map in to Jacqui, asked Fernagut, ‘Want us to follow you, or the van?’
‘The van. And let the other one get in ahead of you as well. Clear, monsieur?’
* * *
It felt more like half an hour than ten minutes. In the course of it Rosie took the Beretta and a spare clip out of Léonie’s bag, slid a round into the little pistol’s breech, checked the safety-catch was on, then put it in the right-hand pocket of the blazer Jacqui had lent her. Spare clip in the other pocket, along with the map-reader’s torch which she’d appropriated. Clausen had glanced back while she was doing it, asked her, ‘What kind is it?’
‘Beretta thirty-two.’
‘Carried one of those before?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Used it?’
‘That’d be telling.’
‘You used a knife on the SS officer you killed, but—’
Jacqui drew in her breath: ‘Killed? SS—’
‘The pistol I’ve carried most often is a Llama.’
‘Heavy for you, I’d have though
t.’
‘It’s always suited me very well. This time, though, I’m travelling light, and this is a very neat little job.’ She was on the point of telling him it had been Derek Courtland who’d given it to her, but instead pointed ahead – Clausen still craning round, looking back at her and Jacqui during this conversation: ‘Gendarmes embarking.’
‘Ah. Well, then…’
Jacqui still had a hand on Rosie’s arm: ‘You killed an officer of the SS?’
‘On a train. I had help, I must admit. Rather expert help. I still don’t know who he was.’
Clausen started the car. The sun had sunk in a blaze of glory over Paris, but there was still plenty of light in the sky back there. Too much, maybe. Fernagut’s truck pulled out, passing around the blue van which then followed it. Clausen pushed the Citroen into gear. Rosie with her eyes shut, face in her hands, whispering in her mind Please, let her be there, and alive? A shiver then – a moment’s panic, inexplicable – unless it was the feeling she was asking too much, couldn’t have everything come up roses. Ben too, Ben home safe, please?
* * *
On latitude 61 degrees 55 north it was still broad daylight, and from the window in Einar Loen’s living-room, using Loen’s old binoculars, Ben was watching the armed trawler shortening-in its cable. He had Petter Jarl with him, and they were waiting to see which way the trawler headed when it finally did get its anchor up. If it moved eastward – further up-fjord – they’d take the Ekhorn out tonight, in about two hours’ time. Most of the day had been spent in argument and discussion; in the course of it Ben had persuaded Loen to come down with him to the launch and give them all his view of the situation – that it would be wiser by far to wait a week or at least several days – but Jarl and most of the others had been unconvinced, remained fairly desperate to get away. To try to get away, Ben had amended quietly. Jarl understood and spoke some English, as long as one spoke slowly and enunciated clearly. His argument – Jarl’s – was that the trawler had been putting landing parties ashore by motorboat in various places during the day – Ben had seen it from this window too, a couple of times, the motorboat returning to the ship and then setting off again – and before they were through, Jarl argued, they’d surely come for a look in here. It was sheer luck they hadn’t already, that this far they’d seemed to have been concentrating on the northern shore; sooner or later that was going to change, and you’d get damn little notice of it.
Bjorn Stang, who’d piloted the Ekhorn in, and had all the local knowledge, was very much in favour of getting out as soon as possible. That trawler would shift tonight, he thought – probably before dark: if it did – at any rate if it moved up-fjord – he was in favour of making a break for it there and then. He was an experienced seaman and fisherman, had been born somewhere on this coast and commanded the respect of the others – including Petter Jarl who, although young and inexperienced, had somehow inherited the command from Nils Iversen, despite having been more Iversen’s trainee than second-in-command, Ben thought. The essence of it was that they felt they were in a trap here: and nobody, not even Anna’s father, could say with any certainty that they weren’t.
The crucial factor, anyway, was the armed trawler. As long as it stayed where it had been all day there was no question of making any move. None of them disputed this: or that if it moved down-fjord it would still be between them and the open sea. Might steam right out of the fjord – as it had on the night 600 had arrived – but you wouldn’t know until you ran into it, if you took that risk. Ben had asked Loen earlier in the day what he thought might be the chances of it moving up-fjord – because obviously it wasn’t going to stay in that one spot for ever – and Anna had chipped in with a whole list of villages and fjordlets to which it might go next, maybe in preparation for resuming the search tomorrow: ‘Gloppe Fjord, Vereid, Rysfjoeren, Utviken – or there’s Invik, that’s in Inviksfjord – oh, and nearer still of course Alfot…’
‘A whole lot of fjord, in fact.’
As Vidlin had pointed out, 80 or 90 kilometres of it. Which meant the German could move himself well out of the way, if he chose to do so.
He handed Jarl the glasses. ‘Your turn. Taking their damn time about it, aren’t they? Maybe the motorboat’s still away and they’re waiting for it. Can’t see it – can you?’
They’d shortened-in, and were just sitting there. Loen had gone to visit some neighbour about getting word to the people in Alesund that their stuff was here in his outhouse. He’d been showing signs of ill-temper since (a) Anna had refused his suggestion of a move to Shetland and (b) the Ekhorn’s crew hadn’t accepted his advice to sit it out, let things cool down. It was 9.30 now, two hours before it would be dark enough to push off – if the trawler did deign to move. Ben had told them OK, if it did – and went up-fjord – fair enough, he’d be with them, but otherwise wait for tomorrow night – and they’d agreed on that. Leaving Jarl at the window now, he sat down at the table beside Anna who was writing a letter on paper torn from a school exercise-book.
‘If we do go – you coming?’
She finished the line she was writing, put the pen down and looked at him. Those eyes, at such close quarters… With Rosie, if you’d had to single out one feature it would have been her mouth. He’d called it her I’ll-eat-you-alive’ mouth. In a similar way, with Anna it was the eyes. They had a magnetic quality: as Rosie’s mouth had had. Magnetic pull which he’d never seen any reason to resist. Same applied here and now – at least, as it felt to him.
She’d drawn back a little; glanced away in Jarl’s direction then back to him, telling him very quietly, ‘The answer is no. I can’t leave my father.’
‘But he wants you to.’
‘He thinks he does. He’s forgotten what a lonely man he was.’
‘Well, he might be again, but it’s what he’d choose, he’d be happier knowing you were safe.’
‘Sailing tonight in Ekhorn – safe?’
‘How long ago did you say your mother died?’
‘I was twelve.’
‘Ten years ago.’
‘A little more.’
‘I’ll tell you one thing, Anna.’ The eyes really did have it; he told them, ‘You’re lovely. You truly are quite, quite beautiful.’
‘I’m staying here with my father.’
‘You and Rosie would have hit it off pretty well, what’s more.’
‘You’re what they call “on the rebound”, Ben. You’re lonely.’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘For Leif, of course.’
‘I mean it though – you’d have found a lot in common. She’d approve – I mean, of me talking to you like this.’
‘Not if she was alive, she wouldn’t.’
‘If she was alive I wouldn’t be talking to you like this.’
‘No, I don’t suppose you would.’ Giving thought to that; then asking, ‘Are all Australians like you?’
‘Hell, no. Lots of ’em are quite ugly.’
The smile. ‘You tempt me, Ben.’
‘Well, now—’
‘No. I can’t leave him.’
Jarl called from the window, ‘Trawler moving!’
‘Which way?’
‘Can’t say.’ He added some Norwegian which Anna translated as, ‘Could be making a wide turn, he says.’ Ben was at the window, and Jarl grunted, ‘Go up-fjord. Here.’ The glasses. Ben took them and saw he was right; and that it had its motorboat in tow. He felt Anna beside him, asked her, ‘Tell him we’ll push off at eleven-thirty? He could go down and tell his mates, if he likes. I’ll keep lookout here as long as the light lasts, in case that object comes back, in which case – too bad.’
Jarl listened to that in Norwegian, and nodded. ‘OK.’
‘How long to warm through her engines?’
The answer came out as, ‘Ten, fifteen minutes.’
‘OK. Eleven-fifteen. I’ll be with you before that, though.’
Anna said when they were alone, ‘I was hoping it wo
uld turn the other way. That’s the truth, you may as well know it.’
They were face to face; he slid his arms round her. Actually under the loose jersey – as it turned out. It was a patterned jersey and she had a white shirt under it with a long, lemon-yellow skirt.
‘Won’t you come with us?’
‘I can’t.’
He kissed her, lightly. ‘Not even just to Shetland, to those friends?’
‘What good would that do you?’
‘I’d know you were safe. As your father would.’
‘I’ll be safe here, don’t worry. Safer than in the Ekhorn, what’s more. I don’t think you should be sailing this soon; I think my father’s right’
‘Meet again when it’s all over, Anna?’
‘If you like.’
‘You don’t mind this?’
His unshaven jaw. She shook her head. Kissing again, much less lightly and for longer; telling her then as she ran her fingers over it, ‘It’s going to be a beard. Had one before.’ A luxuriant growth which he’d shaved off for Rosie. Who would have approved, he felt sure. What she would not have raved about exactly was Joan – the Stack girl – who was now in any case a non-starter.
Kissing a lot more and Anna realising that she was indeed very tempted – almost as much as he was. Whispering – her mouth just clear of his: ‘When the war ends or the Germans get out of Norway – write care of the postmaster in Alfot, will you?’
‘Bet your sweet life!’
‘Ben?’
‘Uh?’
‘There’s a wider view from upstairs. See past that headland a little way – actually my window—’
‘But if your father—’
‘He’ll be an hour yet. Come on…’
‘Oh, Christ!’
‘What—’
Didn’t need any wider view. The armed trawler was sliding into plain-enough view as it was, from behind that headland. Slowly… as if drifting, not under engine power. He’d snatched up the glasses, had them on her. Close into this side of the main fjord, close to its junction with this one – much closer than it had been before. And… stopped. He muttered, ‘Boat’s alongside, men mustering on deck. Climbing down into it. Damn and blast and – look, nothing anywhere near here they can be inspecting except the creek, is there?’
Single to Paris Page 32
