I remained about fifteen yards behind the waiter, taking the opportunity to discard my newspaper as I passed a litter bin. I didn’t really relish being so close, but any further back and I ran the risk of losing them both in the gloom. For his part, he kept a constant ten yards or so behind Véronique. Couples strolled past me. One or two nodded a polite hello: I tried to acknowledge them, to smile, to look normal and carefree, not like someone from Special Ops following a big bloke with tattoos on his arms. There was a small ornamental stream running to my left and I recalled from the map that it ran the full length of the gardens. There were paths on both sides of the stream with numerous little footbridges linking them. I made a decision and hurriedly crossed one. I was no longer directly behind the waiter, but I could still see him. I reckoned this was good secret-agent work. If the waiter now turned and looked behind him, there was nothing to suggest he was being followed. My chosen path also ran next to some rhododendrons and other bushes that would offer me some cover in an emergency.
Véronique headed in the direction of the pier. Just as its entrance came into view, she abruptly turned left and skipped up another set of steps back towards the street, in the direction of the big building Walker had told us was our rendezvous – the Pavilion, a music hall where shows and dances were staged most nights, air raids permitting.
The waiter followed her up but stopped on the top step. I cursed under my breath. I was stuck below them both and I could no longer see Véronique. I glanced round frantically. My only option was to climb through the undergrowth towards the street above and hope she’d not disappeared from view by the time I got there. I dipped into the shrubbery and, grabbing what branches I could, hauled myself up the steep slope. At the top I crouched down, parted some leaves, and peered into the street in front of me.
Where had she gone? I noticed that the waiter’s eyes were firmly fixed on a hotel across the street – The Melksham! I recalled the photograph we’d been shown of Renard, and that the brigadier had mentioned the hotel’s name. Then, through the glass window I saw Véronique in the lobby, standing in front of the reception desk. I turned my head to see what the waiter would do next. Eventually, dodging the traffic, he hurried across the street.
I had a terrible thought. Maybe Renard had rumbled Véronique’s cover, and knowing she was with the SIS had decided to deal with her? Was she a liability that needed to be disposed of? Had this tattooed oaf been sent to bump her off? It felt like an air-raid siren was going off in my head. I had to do something.
Emerging from my hiding place, I ran across the street, thumped into a glass panel of the revolving doors at the entrance to The Melksham and pushed. Once inside, I observed Véronique disappearing into a lift. The doors pinged and closed. The waiter hurried to a second lift, waited for the doors to open and for an elderly couple to slip out, then leaped inside. Véronique was in danger, I decided. The waiter had to be stopped and it was down to me to do it. But my first problem was that there were only two lifts, both now occupied. I also had no idea which room Véronique was in. Hell, I didn’t even know her real name or the name she was registered under. Worst of all, I didn’t have much time. I rushed to the reception desk. ‘That woman who just came in. The really pretty one. I’ve got an urgent message for her. What room is she in?’
The smartly dressed man behind the desk peered at me over the top of his spectacles. ‘We don’t give out that kind of information, I’m afraid. Especially not to young riffraff,’ he said, looking down his nose at me. ‘Give the message to me. I’ll see she gets it.’
About to scream that someone’s life was in danger, and equally tempted to leap over the desk and grab the register to look at the list of guests, I managed to stop myself. There simply wasn’t time. I turned and ran towards the lifts and the stairs that wound up behind them.
‘Oi! You, come back here!’ the man at the desk bellowed.
As I ran, I fixed my eyes on the dial above Véronique’s lift. The arrow on the half-moon swung slowly clockwise. The lift climbed past the second, third and fourth floors before the arrow settled on the number five. She was on the fifth floor! I made for the staircase and raced up three steps at a time, turning right, then right again, always to my right. A couple were heading downstairs. I bumped into them and sent them flying. ‘Sorry!’ I yelled. More steps – three at a time. I was getting breathless, and my heart pounded. Still I ran. I turned another corner. There was a sign on the wall with a big, glorious number five on it. I grabbed a handrail and, bent double, sucked air into my burning lungs. What now? Pressing myself against the wall, I poked my head round the corner and glanced up and down the corridor. The waiter was at the far end, to my left, with his back to me. He was standing in front of a door – the door to Véronique’s room? His left hand was in his pocket. He knocked with his right. Don’t answer, I prayed. Ignore it, Véronique. For God’s sake!
Chapter Eight
Véronique
GRITTING MY TEETH, I set off down the corridor as fast as I could force my legs to go. The waiter heard me pounding towards him and turned sharply. Startled, he whipped his hand from his pocket. I saw the grey steel of a revolver. The door to Véronique’s room opened and her face appeared. The man raised his gun. Between me and him stood a trolley piled high with clean linen. I grabbed it and pushed it forward with my full weight behind it. Letting out a determined cry, I ploughed ahead, slamming the trolley into him as hard as I could. Driven by my momentum, the oaf was forced back into Véronique’s room. She only just managed to step aside in time. As the waiter spun backwards and fell heavily, catching the back of his head on the corner of a table, I heard a pop and something shatter. A cloud of white dust filled the room and the powerful odour of scented talc reached my nostrils. I realized he’d fired a single shot as he fell, demolishing a bottle resting on the dressing table. Terrified, Véronique let out a cry of ‘Dieu tout-puissant!’ and took several unsteady steps back. Raising her hands to her face, she seemed about to scream. But she didn’t. The waiter’s gun bounced across the carpet and came to rest beneath a radiator amid fragments of broken glass. Holding a finger to my lips, I closed the door behind me and hurriedly picked up the gun, pointing it at the unconscious figure lying at my feet. The weapon was familiar to me: a Smith and Wesson – complete with silencer. ‘He was sent to kill you,’ I said, trying to catch my breath. ‘Looks like I got here just in time.’ Suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of relief and exhaustion, I slumped to my knees and gasped for air.
Véronique gathered her wits, overcame her shock and divided her stare between the waiter and me. ‘Who is he? And who are you?’
‘Well, I don’t know his name but he works at the Cadenza Café, opposite Félix’s apartment.’
‘You know Félix Mouton?’ she asked with surprise.
‘Not personally, although I understand he sometimes goes by the name Renard, Véronique,’ I replied.
She gasped. ‘How do you know his … and my …?
‘Let’s just say you and I are on the same side,’ I interrupted. ‘Is he dead?’
She peered down at him. ‘Don’t think so, but he’s going to have one hell of a headache when he wakes up.’
Putting his gun in my coat pocket, I seized a lamp from the dressing table and tore the flex from it. ‘I’ll use this to tie him up,’ I said. ‘Help me turn him over.’
As I bound his hands behind his back, Véronique sat down on the edge of her bed and allowed the events of the previous two minutes to sink in.
‘Looks like your cover’s been blown,’ I said, tying a really tight double knot. ‘Do you have any idea how?’
‘What? No.’
I glanced up and saw she was nibbling the end of her fingernails nervously. Her clear hazel eyes were scrutinizing me closely and it was almost as if I could hear the hundred thoughts and questions bouncing round inside her head. Yes, she was in shock, but she was also highly trained, I reckoned, and her training was now kicking in, taking control. She had
to assess the situation, work out what was happening and make some decisions. I did too. I pulled my handkerchief from my pocket, rolled it up and used it to gag the waiter. ‘There! He’s not going anywhere.’
‘Who exactly do you work for?’ she asked.
‘Special Ops,’ I said proudly.
A slight crease formed on her otherwise porcelain-smooth brow. Reaching for her handbag, she took out a slim enamelled gold case, opened it and removed a blue cocktail cigarette. Inserting it into a long, slender holder, she lit up and took a series of short, sharp puffs, all the while never taking her eyes off me.
Happy the waiter wasn’t going anywhere should he regain consciousness, I dragged a chair across the room and sat down opposite Véronique. ‘The way I see it,’ I began, ‘Renard must be close to making his move. Does he still have the blueprints?’
‘How long have you been following me?’ she asked cagily.
‘Just from when you left Renard’s apartment,’ I replied. ‘The blueprints …?’
‘What? Oh, I don’t know.’
‘Have you seen them? Ever heard Renard talk about a rayon de la mort?’
She gave me a puzzled look, then shook her head.
‘We believe he’s either going to pass the blueprints on to a courier, or take them to Germany himself,’ I said. ‘Do you know which? Has he let on what his next move is?’
‘You’re not English, are you?’
‘No. But where I come from is unimportant.’
She studied me, squinting slightly. ‘North European, I’d say. Not German or Swedish though. Danish, maybe, or Norwegian.’
‘Can we stick to the important stuff, please?’
She got up and began pacing the room. It was large with expensive furnishings, heavy drapes and frills – nothing but the best for our Véronique, I thought. It struck me that the longer she paced and mulled over her predicament, the more nervous she grew. I sensed she was thinking at breakneck speed. ‘When you parted company earlier, where was Renard heading?’ I asked.
‘He said he had some business to attend to.’ She flicked ash onto the thick carpet and then took another drag of her cigarette. ‘We’d planned to meet up later at the Pavilion. There’s a dance there tonight.’
‘What time?’
‘Eight o’clock.’
I inspected my watch. Six-fifteen. ‘Only, I don’t suppose he’ll be expecting you to turn up this evening, will he?’ I added sharply. ‘He’ll assume you’re already dead. So, the question is, will he be there?’
‘I don’t know.’ Her expression hardened. ‘Only I shall,’ she insisted.
‘Is that wise?’
‘If he turns up, I want to see the look on his face!’
‘That’s a bad idea, Véronique,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘You’ve had a narrow escape. Do you want to tempt fate? Although …’ I paused, my brain racing like a runaway train. ‘Maybe we can cover you. Be there in case it turns nasty. There are others, you know. Like me, that is. Right now, they’re following Renard.’ It suddenly dawned on me that I had no idea where Loki and Freya were. If we were to meet by eight o’clock, I had to find them quickly. ‘Did Renard say where this business of his was taking place?’
‘He didn’t, but it will be the same as always, I expect. The Flamingo Club. That’s where he normally hangs out.’
I removed the small map of the town centre from my pocket. ‘Show me.’
Véronique leaned over me and I watched as she traced a perfectly painted nail over my map. I caught a whiff of her scent over the pungency of the talc that still hung in the air. She smelled nice, of strawberries. ‘The club’s about there,’ she said.
‘Thanks.’ I returned the map to my pocket. ‘Don’t suppose you know who he’s meeting?’
‘No. Félix always plays his cards close to his chest.’ She sat down on the edge of her bed again and gazed at me with a pained expression. ‘You look so young. It’s not right. It’s not fair.’
I recalled X’s initial briefing to us at Mulberry. ‘This war is dirty, vile, downright underhand,’ I said, repeating his words. ‘There are no rules.’
She nodded slowly, her eyes still locked on mine. They were gorgeous eyes too, full of courage and hope; eyes I could easily lose myself in. I felt really odd inside. It was as if I wanted to reassure her; to tell her that I was no naive boy, that I knew precisely what was at stake. I wanted to tell her everything – that my father was dead, my mother and sister prisoners of the Gestapo, that I’d once been locked up in Trondheim’s Kristiansten Fortress and interrogated, that I’d witnessed three men from my village face a firing squad, that I’d escaped from Norway with vital photographs and maps, that I’d stolen a plane and flown her to Scotland, that long ago I’d made up my mind to fight back in any way I could to help defeat the Nazis … that looks could be deceptive! Then it struck me. What about her? How come she was involved in all this? We were like icebergs. Both of us. What you could see of us were just the bits above the surface. Beneath, hidden from view, lay much, much more.
She stubbed out her cigarette and took a deep breath. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Finn.’
She leaned forward and kissed me on my cheek. ‘Thank you, Finn.’
I felt my cheeks redden.
She smiled. ‘OK. What about him?’ she said, stiffening and jerking a thumb in the direction of the waiter.
‘Good question. Is there a phone in this hotel?’ I asked.
‘Yes. There’s a kiosk in the lobby. Why?’
‘I’m going to call and request some assistance. I expect my commanding officer will enjoy interrogating him.’
As I got up from my chair, she grabbed my arm. ‘Be careful what you say on the telephone, Finn. The operators have a nasty habit of eavesdropping.’
At the bottom of the hotel staircase I sneaked a look into the lobby to locate the telephone kiosk and see whether the awkward man was still in reception. Luckily he was engrossed with a customer. I shot across the lobby and into the kiosk, closing the sliding door behind me. I took out the piece of paper with Brigadier Devlin’s telephone number on it and picked up the handset.
‘Which number please?’ chirped a voice on the other end of the line.
‘Beaulieu five-one-five-four, please.’
‘Thank you. I’ll try to connect you.’
The wait seemed endless. Come on, come on! I thought. Pick up the phone.
‘I’m sorry for the delay,’ the operator said. ‘Still trying to connect you.’
‘Hello?’ It was Walker.
Finally!
‘It’s Finn,’ I said.
‘Is there a problem?’
‘Yes!’ I hesitated. How could I explain everything without letting the operator – who I assumed was eavesdropping – hear it all. I had an idea. ‘Is Nils there?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Wait.’
Nils came onto the line. ‘Finn?’
I switched to Norwegian and spoke quickly. ‘We’ve got a big problem,’ I said. I told him where I was, that Véronique’s cover had been blown and an attempt made on her life, that one of Renard’s men was tied up in a hotel room awaiting collection by the brigadier, and that Véronique was presently getting ready to confront Renard at the Pavilion dance.
‘Good Lord, Finn! And what about Loki and Freya?’ he asked.
‘They followed Renard. He’s gone to the Flamingo Club. To do a spot of business – maybe to make arrangements or hand over the blueprints. I’m heading there as soon as we’ve finished talking.’
‘Not so fast, Finn. Hang on a minute while I speak to the brigadier.’
I sat in the tiny, cramped, stuffy kiosk that reeked of wax polish for what felt like a lifetime.
‘Finn?’ Nils said, returning to the phone. ‘Listen carefully,’ he said, still in Norwegian. ‘We’re on our way. Best thing for you to do is locate Loki and Freya and then sit tight. Back off. No more heroics. The situation is far too dangerous. And Véronique must stay
put. The brigadier’s orders are that under no circumstances should she confront Renard before we arrive. Is that clear? Under no circumstances! Make sure she understands. It’s best Renard thinks the attempt on her life was successful. OK?’
‘Understood.’
‘Great. We’ll meet you outside the Pavilion dance hall at about eight o’clock. Well done, Finn. Sounds like quite an adventure.’
He hung up.
I raced back upstairs. Reaching the end of the fifth-floor corridor, about to knock, I realized the door to Véronique’s room stood slightly ajar. I remembered that I’d closed it behind me. I definitely closed it! Through the gap I saw something that sent a chill through my bones. Where was the waiter? He wasn’t where I’d left him. ‘Véronique?’ I whispered. ‘Is everything all right?’
Chapter Nine
The Flamingo Club
SOMETHING WAS VERY wrong. I just knew it. Reaching into my coat pocket, I removed the waiter’s revolver and held it tightly. Was our weapons training about to be put to the test? This situation was real, and it felt totally different from our practice sessions taking pot shots at makeshift targets in the woods behind Mulberry House. No amount of training can prepare you for the awful sense of trepidation in your belly. I gathered my thoughts and tried to calm myself. After all, I’d been in tight corners before. And good old Smithy had prepared us for exactly this situation – close combat in confined spaces. He’d called it instinctive firing. Basically, you forget about taking careful aim. Simply point and shoot – two quick shots. At close range it works because it’s fast – hopefully faster than the enemy. That’s all that matters. I took a deep breath, moved to one side of the door, then kicked it open with my foot and glanced in. Maybe my imagination was running wild. Maybe I was being stupid. Perhaps I had forgotten to close the door, after all. ‘Véronique?’
No reply. There was nothing for it. Counting to three quickly under my breath, I leaped into the room and spun around, trying to look in all directions at once. I saw a gun pointing at me. I fired twice. Two dull pops emerged from my silencer, followed by little wafts of smoke. The large mirror on the wall shattered. I’d shot my own reflection!
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