‘I think so,’ Jean said, thoughtfully. ‘I almost prefer when people are a bit anxious. Lord knows they have good reason to be, speaking to us. No, it’s the quiet, confident ones that worry me.’
‘Like his pal Carlo?’
Jean pursed her lips for a moment, then shook her head.
‘No, I think they both seemed genuine enough,’ she said. ‘The real question is whether their group can actually stop the Germans if Hitler orders the tunnel to be blown.’
Frank nodded. They’d met Carlo and Luca in a restaurant just off the main square and spent a couple of hours in quiet discussion, though the tunnel itself was deliberately never mentioned. Posing as a married couple, he and Jean had asked questions about a “property their family was renovating” and Carlo had assured them that he had adequate staff to ensure the property remained open, as long as funds were available and his men were given “reasonable notice”.
That was the part that worried Frank. Everything depended on them having sufficient warning; it all came down to information.
‘How good is our intel?’ he asked quietly.
Jean turned and looked at him.
‘Good, I suppose.’ She frowned. ‘But why ask me? You know as much as I do.’
‘You’re closer to Swift,’ Frank pointed out.
Jean’s expression darkened.
‘What are you saying?’
‘I was just thinking about Carlo’s “reasonable notice”, and Swift seems to trust you…’ Frank stopped. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean…’
He trailed off, sensing that he’d said the wrong thing.
Jean regarded him stiffly.
‘Is that what people think of me?’ she demanded. ‘That I’m Swift’s private emissary? Or something worse?’
‘No, that’s not what I meant,’ Frank assured her. ‘Sorry.’
Jean glared at him, then turned her face back to the window.
‘There’s nothing going on between us, and there never has been,’ she said, after an uncomfortable silence. ‘Anyway, Dulles is the one who really knows what’s going on. His sources seem to know everything, and the information isn’t just coming from Washington.’
Frank opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. Sitting back slowly into his seat, he lowered his eyes and took a deep breath. How had he managed to get things so wrong with Jean? He hadn’t been implying anything, but something he’d said had rubbed her the wrong way.
They sat in silence as the train trundled along beside the blue-grey water of the Rhône. After a few minutes, Jean turned back to look at him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, shaking her head slightly. ‘I didn’t mean to snap.’
‘It’s okay. I should have chosen my words better.’
Jean shifted in her seat.
‘I hate the way this war gets into your head, you know?’ She lowered her eyes. ‘All the lying, the way it makes you angry, the way it makes you doubt people…’
Doubt people?
There was something there, something troubling her, but as Frank leaned over to ask, he saw her expression switch and suddenly she was gazing past him with a cheery smile on her face.
Behind him, he heard the compartment door open, and turned to see a young man in a conductor’s uniform.
‘Darf ich bitte Ihre Fahrkarten sehen?’ the man asked, holding out a hand.
‘I think you’ve got the tickets, darling.’ Jean looked at him expectantly.
‘Yes, of course.’ Frank reached for his jacket pocket, drew out the tickets and handed them over. The conductor took a brief look, then returned them.
‘Vielen Dank,’ he said, withdrawing and sliding the door shut behind him.
Jean watched him leave, then calmly turned towards the window. Frank saw her smile fade in the reflection.
‘Jean…’ he began, but she silenced him with the tiniest shake of her head.
‘Not now,’ she murmured. ‘There are some things I need to be sure of, things I need to decide.’
Frank eased himself slowly back in his seat, then stole a quick sideways glance at her. She’d been about to open up, confide in him… but what had she been about to say?
27
It rained heavily the next day. A wall of thick cloud rolled down off the mountains, turning the skies grey and washing the color from the city. People scurried between the shelter of the arcades and pressed into streetcars, leaving the cobbled plazas shining and empty.
In the Dufourstrasse office, Frank stood by the window, watching the droplets trickle down the glass.
‘Anything you want me to do?’ he asked, turning away from the light to look at Rafe. It was just the two of them in the office this afternoon and Jean hadn’t left him her customary pile of dossiers to work through.
Rafe glanced up from his desk.
‘You can help me sort these.’ He indicated a stack of reports on the floor beside him, then smiled. ‘A problem shared is a problem doubled.’
Frank walked over, lifting half the remaining pile and taking it round to his desk.
‘I think this is the quietest I’ve ever known it here,’ he mused, sitting down and spreading the reports out in front of him.
‘That’s just because you’re always the one out and about, enjoying yourself,’ Rafe said. ‘Where was it yesterday? Lausanne?’
‘Brig,’ Frank corrected him. ‘Playing Mr and Mrs with Jean.’
‘She’s far too good for you,’ Rafe joked.
‘I’ll tell her you said that.’ Frank laughed. He stared down at the reports, but his smile faded as he remembered the day before, and the long silent train journey home. Something had been troubling Jean, but a woman with a child had joined them in their compartment soon after they left Brig, and there’d been no opportunity to talk.
‘I say.’ Rafe looked up. ‘If you were out all of yesterday, you won’t have heard the good news about Cherbourg, will you?’
‘Cherbourg?’
‘Yes, the Germans there have been completely cut off.’ Rafe beamed. ‘It won’t be long before the whole French coast is secured and our chaps are pushing on for a crack at Paris, just you wait and see.’
‘It’s the waiting that I can’t stand,’ Frank muttered. ‘But you’re right, it is good news.’
Rafe gazed over at him for a moment, then put down the report he’d been reading.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ he asked. ‘You’ve been like a bear with a sore head all day.’
Frank slumped back in his chair and sighed.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Maybe it’s just… being here, so far from all the fighting, but it feels like nothing’s happening, y’know? Or if it is happening, it’s happening so slowly that it feels like nothing.’
He shook his head, not sure how to explain his frustration.
‘But things are happening,’ Rafe insisted. ‘That’s why everyone’s chasing around all over the place at the moment. You and Jean in Brig yesterday, Molly up in Basel today, Swift off to the Bellevue for another briefing, and I don’t have a clue where Jean is…’ He tapped his desktop with a pointed finger for emphasis. ‘Something’s definitely going on. I don’t know what it is yet, but it’s big.’
Frank found himself smiling at his friend’s enthusiasm.
‘You’re probably right.’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’ Rafe grinned, then looked meaningfully at the pile of reports. ‘Now then, I’ve got work to do. And by that, I mean that we’ve got work to do.’
Swift returned just before 3 o’clock. Stalking into the office, he leaned his wet umbrella by the doorway and pulled off his raincoat, shaking it irritably before hanging it up. Glancing around, he nodded a brief ‘Hello’ to Rafe and Frank, then paced quickly down the corridor and disappeared into his room. They heard the door slam behind him.
‘Someone else is in a mood,’ Rafe observed, turning back to his desk. ‘Perhaps the Bellevue’s cocktail bar was closed today.’
Frank ch
uckled.
‘Maybe it’s just this weather,’ he said, looking over towards the window. ‘It’s still really wet out there.’
‘I shouldn’t grumble about the weather until you’ve had your first Bernese winter. The snow’s not so bad, but there’s a lot of slippery slopes to negotiate. Give me some good old rain, any day.’
‘Spoken like a true Brit.’ Frank grinned.
They worked on in silence, save for the steady patter of the rain against the window. The pile of reports on his desk was diminishing, but it was a slow, tedious job. Sitting back in his chair for a moment, Frank rubbed his tired eyes, then glanced down at his watch.
Ten after four. With luck, they’d be finished by six.
Behind him, he heard footsteps coming quickly along the corridor, and turned to see Swift approaching with a startled expression on his face.
‘Um, listen….’ Swift’s voice was strange, almost trembling. ‘At first I thought it was just a bit of wishful thinking, but the embassy says that radio traffic is going crazy…’
He took a breath, gathering himself.
‘Somebody just blew up Hitler’s headquarters at Rastenburg. They’re saying he’s dead!’
For a moment, they all stood frozen in silence, staring at one another.
‘We actually got him?’ Frank asked, his voice rising. His fists clenched of their own accord and he suddenly sprang from his seat and punched the air, snarling, ‘Fucking-A!’
Rafe sagged back in his chair like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
‘Oh, good God!’ he whispered weakly, a bemused smile on his face. ‘Are you certain?’
‘There’s no official confirmation yet, but the Germans have started turning trains back at the border, and there’s reports of troops being rushed into Berlin.’ He stood there, looking from one of them to the other. ‘I think this is it!’
‘Bloody hell,’ Rafe sighed. He looked over at Frank, his eyes shining with tears, then burst out laughing. ‘Bloody hell!’
Grinning, Frank turned back to Swift.
‘Who got him?’ he asked, eagerly. ‘Was it the S.O.E? O.S.S? Who?’
‘Nobody knows yet,’ Swift replied, ‘but I guess the whole of the Reich is in uproar at the moment. There’s no saying what’ll happen now.’
Rafe sat up suddenly, his eyes widening.
‘A coup d’état,’ he gasped, a smile spreading across his face. ‘I say, maybe this is it! Maybe this is what everyone’s been talking about!’
Swift stared at him for a moment, then nodded quickly.
‘We’ll need to wait and see what happens over the next day or two but… oh hell, it’s exciting.’ He punched his palm. ‘I’m going to go and make a few calls but I’ll let you know when I hear anything more.’
He turned on his heel and walked quickly back down the corridor.
Frank swung his arms and took a deep breath, trying to calm the tingling elation that was coursing through him. He forced himself to sit down, then looked over at Rafe.
‘He’s dead.’ He grinned foolishly.
‘And good bloody riddance, I say.’ Rafe laughed, leaning back and putting his hands behind his head. ‘Oh, please God let this be an end to the wretched war.’
‘It will be, won’t it?’ Frank said. ‘I mean, they must know they’re finished. Between North Africa, Normandy, and the Russians… they must know it’s only a matter of time.’
Rafe frowned.
‘I suppose it depends who takes over. If Goebbels or Himmler grab the reins, well, we might have a year or two more before they chuck in the towel.’
‘You really think so?’ Frank asked.
‘Oh yes, I imagine there’s quite a few of them who’d follow their beloved Fuhrer into the abyss…’ He paused, then slowly shook his head. ‘No, we have to hope that someone from the army takes control: a soldier like Rommel, or someone like that. They’re the ones who’ve been doing all the dying; they’re probably the most eager to give peace a try.’
Molly walked in just after five o’clock, looking tired and bedraggled.
Frank glanced up, but Rafe was already calling over to her, his voice jubilant.
‘I say, Molly, have you heard?’
She turned to look at him, shrugging off her wet coat, a weary expression on her face.
‘Heard what?’
Rafe smiled at her.
‘Hitler’s dead,’ he said simply.
Molly stared at him, and the coat slipped from her hands to fall in a crumpled heap on the floor.
‘What?’ she gasped.
‘It happened this afternoon,’ Frank explained, smiling broadly. ‘Someone blew up his place in Rastenburg and…’ He stuck a finger sideways into his mouth, then made a loud popping sound.
Molly’s face broke into a radiant grin, and she started laughing.
‘Oh, but that’s wonderful news.’ She beamed at them. ‘Absolutely wonderful!’
‘Swift says they’ve closed the borders,’ Rafe told her. ‘And Berlin’s in complete chaos.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ Molly moved over to her desk and sat down. ‘Any word on who’s succeeded him?’
Rafe shrugged.
‘Nothing yet.’
‘I suppose we’ll find out soon enough,’ she said softly, then glanced up, her face brightening. ‘For now, I’m just glad that Hitler’s out of the picture.’
‘Amen to that,’ Frank said.
Swift came out of his room a few minutes later. Walking into the office, he paused as his eyes settled on Molly.
‘I assume they’ve told you?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘Is there any more news?’
Swift looked at her, then glanced round at the others.
‘Berlin’s turning itself inside out, by all accounts,’ he said. ‘But I guess there was always going to be a huge power struggle when this happened. I’ll know more when I speak to Dulles later.’
‘Well, at any rate, I think this calls for a celebration,’ Rafe said. He turned to Molly. ‘Is there any of that Scotch left?’
She glanced towards the kitchen with a frown, then looked back and shook her head.
‘All gone, I’m afraid.’
‘We could go down to the bar on Thunstrasse,’ Frank suggested, then turned to Swift for approval. ‘If that’s okay?’
Swift stared at him thoughtfully, then nodded.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I think we should celebrate, all of us together.’
Rafe clapped his hands, then his smile faded slightly.
‘It’s a pity poor old Jean’s not here for this,’ he sighed. ‘Where is she today, anyway?’
‘Zurich,’ Swift explained. ‘But she’s back now. She called me from the station a little while ago, and I told her to go straight home rather than get soaked in this weather.’ He hesitated, then turned to look at Frank. ‘Why don’t you take the car, drive over there and pick her up?’
Jean had a tiny apartment in a large block on Sahlistrasse, not far from Waldheimstrasse – Molly had pointed the place out to him on their way back from Neuchâtel, and they avoided the street when walking together. In the car it should have been a ten-minute journey, but the rain was relentless, and Frank struggled to make out the road ahead as he peered through the windshield. One near-miss with a horse and cart sent him swerving across the wet asphalt, white knuckles wrenching at the wheel to avoid a stone wall. Excited as he was, he took it slower after that.
Now the building looked drab and grey as he ran across the road, coat pulled up over his head to fend off the rain. Flinging himself in under the meagre shelter of the porch, he peered at the array of bell-pushes, then pressed number 14. Waiting, he glanced back at the street, feeling the slow touch of cold water as it soaked through to chill his skin.
C’mon, Jean….
He jabbed the bell once more, but there was no sound, nothing to indicate whether it was working or not. Leaning into the doorway to avoid the rain, he
felt the door give slightly against his shoulder, and realized it was open. He allowed Jean a moment more but, when there was no reply, he pushed the door and stepped inside.
The lobby was cramped and quiet, with polished old wood everywhere. Long strips of dark green carpet extended down the narrow corridor and zig-zagged up the staircase, too narrow to touch the walls or reach the sides of the steps.
Glad to be out of the downpour, Frank shrugged his coat down, shook himself vigorously to rid himself of any droplets. Then he sprang lightly up the stairs.
Jean’s apartment was at the end of a corridor on the fourth floor. He knocked on the door smartly, hoping he wouldn’t startle her, wondering how best to break the news. After her unsettled mood yesterday, this would be the perfect pick-me-up.
There was no answer.
‘Jean?’ he said softly, leaning in close to the door. ‘Jean, it’s Frank.’
The door moved slightly. He pushed it and it swung open a little.
‘Anybody home?’
He put his head around the door, seeing the small living room, with a single armchair and a low table stacked high with magazines.
Out… but where might she have gone?
He stepped back into the corridor, pulling the apartment door closed, then hesitated as his nose caught a strange smell.
Frowning, he paused for a moment, then slowly turned the handle and opened the door again.
‘Jean?’
Now that he was aware, he scented it more quickly, and it definitely seemed to be coming from inside. Nervously, he stepped into the apartment and pulled the door behind him.
There was no sound, and no sign of her. She must have been delayed coming back, or maybe she went out again afterwards. But as he stepped into the middle of the room he felt a curious unease.
He glanced down at the magazines, then looked through the doorway into the bedroom, his eyes flicking to something strange on the wall. He paused in mid-stride.
‘Jean?’
His gaze was fixed beyond the bed, making out the dark spatter across the wallpaper, the strange organic pattern of marks that extended over the chest-of-drawers. He began to move, registering the stockinged feet lying still on the carpet, and stifled a cry, stumbling forwards to see if she was okay.
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