‘She can barely lift a rifle, let alone fire it straight. Although …’ He paused. ‘She’s not bad with a pistol. Pretty quick as a matter of fact. Quite impressive.’ Then, changing the subject, he said, ‘Before you arrived, I heard Walker and the brigadier talking about your escape from Norway. Did you really steal a German seaplane and fly her to Scotland?’
‘Yes. A Heinkel 115. Our fathers are pilots,’ I replied, and then swallowed hard before correcting myself, ‘At least my father was a pilot.’
Max nodded. ‘I’m sorry. What did he fly?’
‘Spitfire.’
‘Where did he—?’
‘Not sure,’ I interrupted, looking up at the sky. ‘Maybe even right up there. I’ve not seen the official report.’
‘I’d love to learn to fly,’ said Max enthusiastically. He peered upwards too. ‘Up there you must feel truly free. Phantastisch!’
‘Jacques seems to know something about what we’re training for and where we’ll be going once we’re ready,’ said Loki.
Max nodded vigorously. ‘I think he knows a great deal. Walker and the brigadier are keeping, erm … how do the English say … tight-lipped. I’ve been trying to work it out. Jacques spends much time inside the brigadier’s office. And Corporal Smith sometimes drives them both somewhere he tells me is very hush-hush. They’re often gone for hours. Once they didn’t even return until the next day. But Corporal Smith won’t tell me where he takes them. I’ve even tried bribing him! I’ve also seen Walker clutching maps of northern France. That’s where Jacques and Amélie come from. A town called Rochefort. I think it’s a few miles from the coast.’
‘Well, that probably explains why Jacques just asked us if we could speak French,’ I said.
Max raised his eyebrows. ‘Seems I may be right. I’d put my money on us all heading off to France. To do what, though?’ He looked thoughtful a moment. ‘Of course, I could be wrong. We might end up all going our separate ways, you back to Norway, Jacques and Amélie back to France, and as for me, well God knows where they’ll send me.’
‘Where would you like to be sent?’ Loki asked.
‘Berlin would be good. Wouldn’t mind having a go at Herr Hitler.’ He formed a pistol shape with his fingers. ‘Pop, pop, and the war’s over. Easy as that!’
We laughed. ‘You’d be famous,’ I said.
‘No, Finn, seriously, I think X has big plans for us. And unfortunately I think whatever the mission is, Jacques is going to be in charge.’ Max grimaced. ‘And that gives me a bad feeling inside. A very bad feeling.’
Chapter Six
The French Connection
LIFE AT MULBERRY House quickly settled into a routine and the long days gradually blurred into weeks of intense activity. Discipline was strict. Sergeant Walker insisted we ran every morning before breakfast, taking us on increasingly lengthy forays into the forest. ‘Good for blowing the cobwebs away!’ he’d yell at us over his shoulder as he set an exhausting pace along narrow paths. These dawn runs turned out to be the only times we ventured beyond the grounds of the house – except for Jacques’ secretive trips with the brigadier. And we never spoke to anyone else despite frequently seeing convoys of trucks on the roads and stumbling across platoons of soldiers marching across the heath. Mulberry House, we realized, was very isolated.
Our lessons were a strange mix. One afternoon Walker taught us how to make impressions of keys using matchboxes filled with plasticine, then fashion duplicates by filing down strips of zinc. And I was flabbergasted at how easy it proved to pick simple locks with bent wire. In the evenings we had French lessons. Jacques and Amélie took part too, our teacher insisting that we practise with them. I paired up with Amélie and was soon glad: she showed great patience and gave me loads of encouragement every time I struggled to find the right words. Our teacher, Madame Dupuis, an elderly woman with jet-black hair tied in a tight bun and hideous-looking varicose veins, taught us with an unnerving sense of urgency. Was that because we had much to learn, or was it because we had very little time? When questioned, she refused to say, but her expression suggested both!
We also learned about different identity papers, and the special permits needed to travel in occupied countries. It seemed Max was right about our first mission because much emphasis was placed on the latest intelligence received from occupied France.
There was a lot to take in and my brain ached from it all. We worked hard – except Jacques. He frequently lost concentration and spent much of the day either gazing blankly out of the dining-room window or doodling. During one of our short breaks I took a look at what he’d scribbled. His artistic efforts struck me as strange. The paper on his desk was filled with towers and boxes and what looked like wires strung between them. And then there were dish-like objects from which emerged long zigzagging lines. ‘What are these?’ I asked him when he returned from the lavatory. ‘And what does this mean?’ I added, pointing to the numerous repetitions of the phrase Rayon de la mort he’d scrawled down the margin of the page.
‘None of your business, Finn,’ he snapped, scrunching up the paper and putting it in his pocket.
Later, I mentioned it to Freya and Loki, adding that Jacques’ doodles bore some similarity to the tall aerial towers Nils had drawn for us while explaining about Britain’s radar system. Freya wasn’t interested in that. She was struck by the phrase Jacques had written repeatedly as if he’d been given a hundred lines in a detention.
‘Mort – that means death, doesn’t it?’ she said.
We looked at each other in consternation. Loki finally came up with a good suggestion. ‘We should keep a close eye on Jacques. For all our sakes. Agreed? I’m beginning to understand that bad feeling Max was talking about.’
There were visitors to Mulberry House in addition to our various instructors. They came and went day and night, some in uniform, others in civvies. All disappeared into the brigadier’s office on arrival and sometimes Jacques would be summoned to join them. As with most things in Special Ops, the reasons behind all this activity remained a mystery to the rest of us; our questions met by a wall of silence.
In the small, strange, closed world of Mulberry House, Mrs Saunders was a rare creature – an ordinary person, a welcome dose of normality. She didn’t say much and seemed reluctant to enter into conversation beyond a chirpy good morning, or asking how we were. I suspected she was under orders not to pry, to ignore all that was going on around her, to remember that officially none of it existed as far as the outside world was concerned. Her job was simple – feed us and wash our clothes. But I think she understood all too well why we were there, and it had a profound effect on her. I would occasionally see her gazing through the kitchen window while we trained outside. Often her focus settled on Freya or Amélie. She seemed sad. I think she knew it was highly likely that some of us wouldn’t live to see the end of the war. Maybe none of us would. We were all young enough to be her sons or daughters and I think she feared getting too close, too familiar.
Complaining bitterly at the inconvenience, Mrs Saunders spent half her life delivering trays of tea and biscuits to the brigadier’s office. The other half she spent creating such delicacies as potato scones, curried carrots, nettle soup, and a hideously awful steamed pudding called mealie, which apparently contained leeks, oatmeal and suet. Worryingly it was also affectionately known as ‘donkey’, although Mrs Saunders couldn’t remember why. She insisted that it didn’t really contain donkey meat but Loki wasn’t so sure! She went about her work as best she could, although feeding us was difficult. Meat, tea, cheese and butter were all strictly rationed, our weekly allowances being a measly few ounces. Thank God for Smithy then! Once a week he’d slip into the kitchen at Mulberry and deliver brown parcels containing a half-dozen rabbits, a joint of ham or a brace of pheasants. Once he presented Mrs Saunders with a huge fresh salmon. ‘All right, lads?’ he’d say, greeting us cheerfully. ‘Look what fell off the back of a lorry this time. Don’t go telling anyone, now. There’s plenty more wh
ere that came from if you play your cards right.’
Smithy was the brigadier’s fixer. Shady deals were his forte.
One of his other tasks was to lead us in weapons training. Some thirty yards or so from Mulberry lay a large, deep depression in the forest, creating a sort of basin. This was the firing range in which weapons could be discharged with reasonable safety. Emerging from the stables, clutching an armful of guns and ammo, Smithy would lead us there and proceed to brief us in the handling of firearms ranging from Smith and Wesson and Luger pistols to the Thompson sub-machine-gun – affectionately known as the Tommy – and the Sten gun. And then there were the special devices, dreamed up by men with vivid imaginations. One was called the welrod. It was little more than a slender tube, about a foot long. It contained a single bullet and could be supplied with a silencer. An agent carried it inside the lining of a coat or suspended on string down a trouser leg. It was hard to detect unless he or she was searched thoroughly. It wasn’t particularly accurate, but if you were in a tight corner it might just get you out of a nasty scrape. Smithy’s favourite, however, was the Sten. It quickly became mine too. I liked its simplicity. It looked more like a few bits of a car exhaust pipe welded together than a real gun. It came in three pieces, barrel, body and butt. It was light and could fire single shots or rapid bursts from magazines that fitted at right angles to the left-hand side. It wasn’t particularly accurate but you could get it wet, muddy even, and it would still function.
‘That might prove useful when your backs are against a wall,’ Smithy informed us. But, as with most things, the Sten had its problems. Jolt it suddenly and it was prone to go off. Fill the magazines completely and they’d jam. Hold the gun incorrectly and you could wave goodbye to the ends of your fingers.
Weapons drill was approached in a spirit of competition. Wearing blindfolds, we repeatedly stripped and reassembled various rifles, pistols and machine guns against the clock. Usually Loki was quickest, Freya or me a close second. Jacques was rather slow and cack-handed, frequently fumbling and dropping bits. Max wasn’t bad but Amélie struggled with anything heavier than a Colt pistol. Despite our frequent practice, Smithy was at pains to drum into us that actually having to use our weapons in a real Special Operation would probably be a last resort. It would almost certainly mean our cover as agents was blown and we were fighting for our lives. It was a sobering thought.
It was also down to Smithy to acquaint us with the latest methods of demolition, a task he undertook with frightening relish. Much damage was inflicted on the forest, old railway tracks and disused outbuildings, as we learned the finer points of plastic explosives, pressure switches and clever timing devices called time pencils. We were also taught how to stuff a dead rat to create the most disgusting explosive device imaginable. ‘They are simply terrific!’ Smithy enthused. ‘Place them in a factory or woodpile and the enemy will either ignore them or bung them onto the fire to get rid of them. Either way, Mr Rat has an unpleasant surprise in store for Jerry!’
* * *
A human battering ram of a fellow nicknamed Kip ‘Killer’ Keenan taught us unarmed combat on the lawn behind Mulberry, a daily activity that largely involved him twisting our limbs and throwing us painfully to the ground.
When our bodies weren’t getting a battering, our brains were being tested to the limit: hours were spent practising our Morse and coding techniques. Freya excelled. She had what Sergeant Walker called a ‘good fist’ – the ability to tap all those dots and dashes in a constant rhythm and rarely make mistakes.
Slowly we were being turned into real secret agents. Our progress, according to Walker, was ‘satisfactory’. Having settled us in, Nils started disappearing for days at a time with the Special Duties squadron, flying missions out of Tangmere, an RAF station located further east along the coast.
In the few precious evenings we had to ourselves, Loki, Freya and I would play board games in the lounge, Max often joining in. It was a good opportunity to talk. Amélie usually had her nose in a book, while Jacques went for long walks in the grounds – alone. He always insisted on walking alone. ‘I worry about him,’ Freya said one evening, deliberately loud so that Amélie would overhear. ‘Jacques shouldn’t keep himself to himself. It’s not healthy.’
Max snorted in a couldn’t-care-less way. Amélie lowered her book and looked up.
‘Don’t you agree, Amélie?’ Freya added.
‘My brother has a lot to think about,’ she replied. ‘He’s not always been like this, you know. Before …’ She broke off mid sentence.
‘Before what?’ I asked.
‘Never mind.’
‘No, come on, Amélie,’ said Loki. ‘Tell us.’
She came and sat on a stool next to the rest of us. Speaking barely above a whisper, she began, ‘Jacques used to be much happier. But after the Germans invaded France, he changed.’
‘Go on,’ I said encouragingly.
Amélie swallowed hard. ‘I shouldn’t really tell you this, so don’t let on to Jacques. Please! Keep it to yourselves. He’d’ – she looked to the heavens for inspiration – ‘Faire fonder un fusible, how you say, erm, ah, oui … blow a fuse, if he knew I was telling you.’
This sounded interesting! We all shifted forward on our chairs.
‘Our father has been forced to work for the Nazis. It’s tearing Jacques up inside. He won’t talk to me about it.’
Seeing Amélie was growing upset, Freya reached out to comfort her. ‘It was the same in our country,’ she said softly. ‘Many men were taken to work in the labour camps. They had no choice.’
‘You don’t understand, Freya. Our father is a brilliant engineer. The Germans insisted he went to Berlin to work on a vital project. Something très, très important.’
‘What project?’ I asked.
Amélie grew exasperated. ‘I don’t know, Finn. But Jacques does. That’s what’s making him so unhappy.’
Loki had been fiddling with a chess piece; now he placed it back down on the chequered board and said, ‘What exactly does your father do? I mean, before France was invaded.’
‘He was chief engineer at a …’ She snapped her fingers hurriedly, trying to find the right words. ‘Un compagnie électronique. It’s called Mouton et Mouton.’ She looked exasperated. ‘You understand?’
‘An electronics firm,’ Max said. ‘I’ve heard of it. They make communications equipment, don’t they?’
‘Oui,’ said Amélie, relieved Max had grasped what she was saying.
Between us, we encouraged Amélie to talk about her life back home, and we coaxed out of her the fact that her escape from France had been almost as hairy as ours. She and Jacques had slipped out of their home in the dead of night, stealing a small sailing dinghy. Battered by a gale, they’d ridden a violent and frightening storm but reached the Sussex coast in one piece. Once ashore they’d made themselves known to the authorities and had been whisked to London. Jacques, it seemed, had information for men in high places. Information he’d not shared with Amélie. Was that just to protect her in case they’d been caught during their escape? After all, he was very protective of his little sister. I couldn’t help wondering whether we had the whole story, or whether there was much more to it.
Two days later the mystery slowly began to unravel. It began with Sergeant Walker summoning Loki, Freya and me to the brigadier’s office.
‘Ah! Come in,’ bellowed the brigadier. ‘And close the door behind you,’ he added once we’d filed inside. ‘Sit down.’
There was something different about the brigadier that afternoon. His manner had changed. He looked excited. Walker was there too, leaning against a filing cabinet. ‘We’ve got a job for you three,’ the sergeant announced. ‘That’s assuming you’d like a change of scenery.’
The brigadier rose from his chair, removed a pipe from his breast pocket, and sucked air through it before reaching for his tobacco pouch. ‘It’s a funny old world,’ he began, tamping a wad of his favourite mild Virgin
ia into the pipe’s bowl. ‘I never thought I’d see the day we’d end up working alongside the ruddy SIS. But that day has arrived.’ He struck a match and lit up. ‘Apparently the buggers need our help.’ Pipe wedged between his teeth, he grinned wickedly.
‘It’s an opportunity for us to show them we’re no bunch of amateurs,’ Walker added. ‘X is keen that we do a good job.’
Engulfed in a cloud of sweet smoke, the brigadier reached across his desk for a bulging file stamped MOST SECRET. He flipped it open, removed a photograph and handed it to me. ‘Take a good look at him,’ he said. ‘Memorize that face.’
We took turns to study the picture of a very suave, sophisticated man in his early thirties. His dark hair was slicked back with oil and his moustache was neatly clipped. The photograph showed him emerging from a building wearing an expensive-looking long dark coat and carrying a cane. ‘That, my dear friends, is the face of the enemy!’ said Walker. ‘We believe him to be a Nazi spy, codenamed Renard – the Fox!’
‘Where and when was this taken?’ Freya asked.
‘Good question, Miss Haukelid,’ the brigadier replied. ‘Two weeks ago outside a hotel called The Melksham. It’s located in the centre of a town called Bournemouth, less than an hour’s drive from here.’
Walker continued, ‘The rascal thinks he can steal vital information from us and get away with it. Well, we’ve got news for him!’
The brigadier sat back down. ‘The SIS has been keeping a close eye on him.’ He removed another picture from his file and handed it to us. On observing the beautiful young woman smiling into the lens of the camera, Loki wolf-whistled and promptly got a prod in the ribs from a less-than-amused Freya.
‘Just kidding,’ he said sheepishly.
‘She is rather attractive, isn’t she?’ observed the brigadier, sighing fondly. ‘That smile could melt hearts at twenty paces. Women are one of Renard’s weaknesses, apparently. Can’t say I blame him. She’s what we call a honeytrap. Her codename’s Véronique. She is a member of the SIS.’
Death Ray Page 5
