‘With a codename like Véronique, I suppose she’s French then?’ I said, handing the photograph back.
‘Yes. As is Renard. He’s fallen for her, hook, line and sinker, allegedly. Precisely what the SIS hoped would happen.’
‘What’s all this got to do with us?’ asked Loki.
Walker began to explain: ‘A week ago, the blueprints for a top-secret device were stolen from a place called Worth Matravers. Their disappearance has sent shivers through the corridors of Whitehall. If those documents get into enemy hands it could prove disastrous.’
‘What sort of device?’ I interrupted.
‘That’s classified,’ the brigadier snapped. ‘You don’t need to know. What we can tell you, however, is that the SIS is certain Renard is behind the theft. And we have our own reasons for believing they might well be right, for once.’ He rose from his chair again and crossed the room to a window. Gazing out, he continued, ‘I’ve spent most of the morning on the telephone with X. He’s just met Mr Churchill and some of the top chaps from MI6. Knowing the kind of things we teach here, the prime minister felt we might be able to put our skills to good use.’
Loki raised a hand.
‘Yes, Mr Larson?’
‘If we know Renard’s an enemy agent, then why don’t we just charge in and arrest him?’
‘I wish it was that simple. Unfortunately there are complications. Renard has friends in very high places. And through his father’s business connections he counts many in our government as valued friends, so we have to tread carefully.’
‘In any event,’ said Walker, ‘a cautious approach is best. After all, we don’t know how many people Renard may have recruited to assist him. So, it’s one step at a time. Best to watch him like a hawk and be ready to pounce when the right time comes.’
‘And that’s what we need you three to do – watch Renard like a hawk,’ said the brigadier. ‘We think he’s either about to try and make a run for it, or he’ll pass the blueprints to an accomplice who’ll courier them all the way back to Berlin.’
I glanced round to Loki and saw him grinning. Like me, he was relishing the opportunity to get away from Mulberry for a while, to join the real world and see some real action!
Walker expanded our briefing: ‘As well as a large house in Belgravia, Renard has an apartment in Bournemouth.’ He held up a map. ‘It’s right there,’ he said, pressing the tip of a fingernail into the paper. ‘Number twenty-three, Cranford Mansions. For the past few weeks he has been spending rather a lot of time there. That’s somewhat surprising given that Bournemouth’s not very popular during the winter months except for troops on leave. But it’s an easy half-day’s travel from Worth Matravers, where the blueprints were stolen. No coincidence, I can assure you! Tomorrow you will be driven into Bournemouth and dropped off. There is a café called the Cadenza opposite Renard’s block of apartments. We want you to wait there and watch. If and when he emerges, follow him. Not too close, mind. We don’t want him getting suspicious. See what he gets up to. Then report back. That’s all. It couldn’t be simpler. No heroics involved.’
‘What if we discover one of his contacts? Do we follow them as well?’ I asked.
‘That’s up to you, Finn,’ said the brigadier. ‘The key objective is not to let Renard out of your sight. So keep your eyes peeled. But play it by ear: we don’t just want him, we want everyone who’s aiding him. They’re as much enemies to this country as he is.’
‘How do we report back?’ asked Loki.
‘You will be relieved of your duty at midnight. A car will pick you up outside a building called the Pavilion. Naturally we’ll drive you round the town centre first so you can get your bearings. And, as well as a map, we will give you a telephone number you can call should there be any trouble.’
‘Trouble?’ Freya asked.
‘Renard is extremely dangerous. We have to assume he is utterly ruthless,’ the brigadier replied. ‘If nothing else, this should be a good opportunity to put what you’ve learned into practice. No slip-ups, mind, or you could jeopardize Véronique’s cover.’ He examined his pipe before tapping out the ash into an ashtray. ‘Splendid! That’s all for now. We’ll reassemble at o-nine-hundred tomorrow morning for a final briefing.’
We all stood up, saluted the brigadier and left his office fizzing with excitement. We were about to embark on our first real work as secret agents. Sergeant Walker headed back through the hall behind us. Freya had a question for him. ‘Renard’s his codename, you said. What name does he usually use?’
‘His real one,’ Walker replied. ‘Félix Mouton.’
Mouton! I gasped. Suddenly I saw a connection, although I didn’t know what it meant. Mouton was the name of the company Jacques and Amélie’s father worked for. That couldn’t be a coincidence – it simply couldn’t. My brain fizzed. Did Jacques know this Renard, this Félix Mouton? ‘About our mission. Why us three?’ I asked. ‘Why not Jacques and Amélie as well?’
‘Out of the question, Finn,’ Walker replied.
‘Why, do they know this Renard fellow?’ I added.
Walker saw the look on my face and stiffened. I guessed I’d hit a nerve. ‘No more questions, Finn. Understood?’
His tone betrayed him. I was right. Jacques and Amélie couldn’t join us on our mission in case Renard spotted them. He’d recognize them instantly. And he’d know that the chances of them all accidentally bumping into each other in a small English town were a million to one – he’d realize people were on to him. As soon as we were out of Walker’s earshot, Freya and Loki revealed that they’d each reached the same conclusion. We went for a walk in the grounds to discuss the mystery.
‘Why all the secrecy?’ Loki complained. ‘If we’re right, I don’t see any harm in us seeing the whole picture: surely it would be best.’
We sat down on a bench beneath a leafless mulberry tree, some distance from the front door to the house.
‘OK, so there’s a link between this Félix Mouton, alias Renard, and our French colleagues,’ I said, thinking aloud. ‘Amélie told us that when they arrived, they went to London as Jacques had important information for the top brass. Maybe it was about the fact that Félix Mouton is here as a spy.’
Loki nodded vigorously. ‘That would explain a great deal. Maybe all those meetings Jacques has been summoned to were about Félix. Maybe he’s been providing information. You know, background stuff.’
Freya frowned. ‘Perhaps. But just now Walker and the brigadier behaved as though this was all sudden and unexpected. And if you’re right, Loki, if Jacques has been involved, then that doesn’t quite add up.’
Loki sprang up and turned to face us. ‘I am right, Freya. Otherwise, how come the brigadier had that file? And those photographs of Renard and Véronique? That file was bulging with paperwork. They’ve known about Renard for some time.’
‘I wonder what those blueprints are for,’ I said. ‘And what goes on at that Worth Matravers place they mentioned. Some sort of device, they said. Got any ideas?’
‘Jacques’ father’s an engineer, working for the Nazis on something important, and the Mouton business is all about electronics – communication stuff,’ Loki interrupted. ‘What if this is all connected to Renard and whatever device is contained in the blueprints?’
Something else clicked into place inside my head. ‘Those doodles of Jacques’, all those towers and dishes – perhaps they’ve got something to do with this.’
Our train of thought was interrupted by the arrival of two cars. Nils was in one, back from his latest mission with the Special Duties squadron. He looked shattered, his face grey, his eyes weary. The other car was delivering Madame Dupuis for our daily French lesson. The driver hopped out and ran round the car to open the passenger door for her.
Just as she stepped out, Freya sprang up. ‘Rayon de la mort,’ she muttered, hurrying towards Madame Dupuis. Nils waved a hello. I waved back.
Freya reached Madame Dupuis. I saw her ask our teacher som
ething. Madame Dupuis balked with surprise before replying. Freya then charged back to us with a look of alarm on her face. ‘Rayon de la mort,’ she said breathlessly. ‘That’s what Jacques wrote, wasn’t it?’ We nodded. ‘Well, according to Madame Dupuis it … it … it … means death ray!’
Chapter Seven
Watchful Eyes
THE WAITER AT the Cadenza Café grew suspicious of us after our third cup of pale, brackish-tasting tea. I noticed him staring at us from behind the wooden counter as he slowly wiped a damp cloth over it. He was a middle-aged chap, of stocky build, and had faded tattoos of coiled serpents on both arms. The Cadenza proved a pretty cheerless place with cheap tables and chairs, and the menu offered little except spam sandwiches and coffee that smelled suspiciously of chicory.
Loki had shifted his chair sideways and, arms folded, was staring out of the partially misted window towards the other side of the square. In fact, it was more of a circle than a square, with roads radiating from it like the spokes of a bicycle wheel. In the middle was a clock tower and a shelter for those queuing for the next electrically powered trolley bus. The centre of Bournemouth was full of tall buildings, some seven storeys high, housing department stores and other shops. Lewis guns were stationed on their roofs in case of an air raid. There were blocks of residential apartments too, including Cranford Mansions, the one occupied by Félix Mouton – alias Renard.
As life drifted past the window of the Cadenza, we discussed whether Britain and Germany were in some sort of race to develop a death ray. If they were, then whoever succeeded first was likely to win the war.
‘Christ, imagine such a weapon,’ said Loki. ‘Maybe it’s some sort of high-energy beam of light that fries anything that stands in its way.’
‘Or maybe like a bolt of lightning,’ I suggested. ‘Do you think it could destroy tanks or ships or aircraft?’
‘Probably,’ he replied.
Freya tutted. ‘If it exists then it’s almost too terrible to contemplate. I just hope such a thing proves impossible to make.’
We both nodded in agreement, but I thought the fact that some blueprints had been stolen surely had to mean a device existed, at least on the drawing board.
‘Still no sign of him,’ Loki muttered, wiping the mist from the window with the sleeve of his coat. ‘I’m not sure he’s even at home.’
Bournemouth was a lucky town, I decided. When Walker drove us round to give us our bearings, I noticed few obvious signs of bomb damage: he told us that the gap close to the square had been the Central Hotel until the Luftwaffe decided to close it down for good. It was a seaside town rooted in a valley where the sea cliffs temporarily gave way, allowing easy access to sandy beaches and promenades. War, however, meant that steel-reinforced concrete anti-tank defences called dragon’s teeth, vicious barbed wire and heavily armed soldiers barred entry to the golden sands, which Walker had told us had been extensively mined anyway. He’d stopped our car on the cliff top within sight of the pier. Anyone wanting a gentle stroll along it was in for a disappointment: the railings and decking had been removed and a sixty foot middle section deliberately blown up by the Royal Engineers to prevent its use as a landing stage during an invasion.
‘Three hours and we’ve seen nothing – and the light’s fading fast.’ Freya complained. ‘This is cruel. All those shops but I can’t go shopping!’
Loki laughed. ‘You haven’t got enough coupons for a hanky, let alone a new dress.’
I noticed the waiter staring at us again. We’d been whispering in Norwegian, and I wondered if he’d caught an earful. Towns like Bournemouth were full of troops and people who’d fled Nazi persecution and the streets rang with foreign tongues, so I doubted that alone was the reason he was watching us so determinedly. It made me anxious. I had an awful feeling he suspected us of something – as if we were up to no good. ‘We’d better find somewhere else,’ I said finally. ‘We can’t hang around here all afternoon.’
‘Good idea, Finn,’ said Loki, quickly rising to his feet and grabbing his gas-mask case. ‘I’m bored to tears sitting here. Let’s go for a wander.’
The waiter’s stare followed us outside. I could sense it burning into the back of my neck. God, he gave me the creeps. On the pavement we took stock of our surroundings. The overhead electric cables fizzed and sparked as trolley buses trundled past with their masked headlamps, painted windows and camouflaged roofs. I spotted couples strolling to and from the Pleasure Gardens that sliced through the town centre, ending down by the pier. Seagulls and pigeons circled and swooped frantically above our heads, squawking and fighting as if re-enacting the aerial dogfights of the previous summer. It was quite a bustle – just what we needed.
‘I’ll go right,’ said Loki, having glanced briefly at his map. ‘Come with me, Freya. Finn, you go left. Walk up past those shops and then wait for a couple of minutes. Look in the windows or something but keep us in sight. At the top, we’ll turn and head back. After we pass Renard’s apartment, you start moving. That’ll ensure someone keeps the entrance in view at all times. We’ll go back and forth, like pendulums swinging in opposite directions.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘But what’s the signal if one of us spots Renard?’
‘Take out your handkerchief and blow your nose.’
For twenty minutes we played out our game. It seemed to work a treat. Nobody paid any attention to us. Sometimes I walked with a bit of a swagger, hands in pockets, coat unbuttoned. Other times I walked briskly, straight-backed, arms swinging, coat done up tightly. Yet we had a problem. It was getting dark. The shops were closing, the streets were growing quieter. We were beginning to look out of place. ‘What now?’ said Loki as we met up again. ‘Back to the Cadenza?’
I glanced across the square and saw that the sign in the door of the café had been turned over – CLOSED – and blinds had been pulled down. ‘Not an option,’ I replied. I was rather glad about that.
‘Erm …’ As Loki spun round trying to come up with a new plan, the door of the Cadenza suddenly opened and the waiter stepped out. He shut it behind him, locked it, tightened the belt of his mackintosh and adjusted the brim of his hat. He walked a little way to his right and then dipped into another doorway. In the gloom I saw the flash of a lighter as he lit a cigarette.
I had an idea. ‘Give me your paper, Loki,’ I said. ‘There’s a bench over there by the clock tower and a little light spilling out of the bus shelter. I’ll position myself there. You two huddle in that recess next to the department store.’
‘And do what, Finn?’ said Freya.
‘Improvise!’ I said.
Loki grinned. ‘I like the sound of that.’
So I took up my position on the bench and began to read while Loki held Freya in a lovers’ embrace in the shadows.
Casually I turned the pages of my paper, peeking over the top of it; just brief glances, nothing too obvious. The best bit about my chosen vantage point was that by merely flicking my eyes from one side to the other, I could observe both Renard’s building and the waiter on the other side of the square. Slouching with his shoulder pressed against a wall, he kept his head deep in the shadows. Just as I got to the back page, a woman emerged from the entrance to the apartment block. She trotted out quickly and appeared in good spirits. She laughed, held out her arms and twirled on her high heels. Véronique! Renard tumbled out too. He seized her and they kissed. Laughing and waving they parted company, heading in opposite directions. I grabbed my handkerchief from my pocket, dropped my paper into my lap and pretended to sneeze – very loudly. Loki had spotted them too and nodded towards me over Freya’s shoulder. I got up, folded my newspaper under my arm, and was all set to follow the smartly dressed Nazi spy when I paused. Renard had walked a short distance, but then he stopped and removed a cigar from his coat pocket. While holding the bold three-inch flame of his lighter to the tip of his cigar, he peered over towards the far side of the square. Flicking my eyes to the right, I saw the waiter emerge, cast down the
butt of his cigarette and, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his coat, begin walking briskly in the same direction as Véronique. Was his timing pure coincidence? Or had Renard signalled to him? I wasn’t sure.
Loki ran up and grabbed my shoulder. ‘What are you waiting for, Finn? Come on, we mustn’t lose sight of Renard.’
‘Hang on.’ I said. A sixth sense, something deep inside, told me something wasn’t quite right. ‘I’m following Véronique. You two keep Renard in your sights. I’ll catch you up.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Finn. They’re going in opposite directions. And Véronique isn’t our target.’
‘Get going, Loki. I’ve got a hunch, and I want to test it out. Worst case we’ll rendezvous outside the Pavilion at midnight.’
I didn’t wait for a reply. I set off, trying to keep both Véronique and the waiter from the Cadenza in view.
‘Damn you, Finn!’ Loki cursed. I didn’t look back.
Véronique strutted briskly along the pavement, the steel tips on her high heels clicking loudly. As I followed, I noticed the kerb stones were painted white, trees and poles had white lines painted round them too, some about a foot from the ground, others at eye level. I realized that it helped prevent people from tripping up or bumping into things in the dark. There were no streetlights allowed during the blackout: people had to carry torches. We had each been given one by Walker and told it was best to aim their feeble beams down at the ground in front of us, so we could see where we were going. Without hesitation Véronique suddenly turned and trotted down a set of steep steps that led into the Pleasure Gardens. The waiter paused at the top of the stairway, glanced briefly left and right and then descended as well.
He was following her. I could think of only two possible explanations. One, he worked for Renard, and Renard didn’t trust Véronique so wanted her followed. Or two, he was just some creep. I couldn’t decide which. But all afternoon I’d thought there was something shifty about him.
Death Ray Page 6
