‘St Maur doesn’t though. It’s just outside Paris. We’re looking for somewhere inside the occupied territories. What other words have we got?’
He pulled the list of words copied from the scrap towards him; ‘nes and ain’. He referred back to the directory. Anthony could see him tense with excitement. ‘Look at this, Brooke! I don’t know where nes fits in – maybe it’s a street name – but there’s three daughter houses. One in Limoges, and two in Belgium. Mechelen and Louvain.’ He tapped the list of words. ‘Ain! Louvain!’
‘Louvain!’ exclaimed Father Barrett, shocked. ‘Your Sister Marie-Eugénie lives in Louvain? The poor soul!’
Anthony swallowed hard. Before the war, Louvain had been a sleepy town, reminiscent of Salisbury or Canterbury, famous for its gothic architecture and university library, with a priceless collection of early books and medieval manuscripts.
Then, on the 19th August, 1914, the German army had invaded. The Belgian army had retreated to Antwerp, but the Germans were on edge. Hostages were taken, a curfew imposed, and the German First Army established its headquarters in the town, swelling the numbers of troops to around fifteen thousand. For six days an uneasy calm prevailed, then came a single shot, a spark that caused an inferno.
Who pulled the trigger was never established, but it seemed probable that the culprit was a nervy German soldier, terrified of a lone gunman. Panicked by the thought of the hundred-thousand-strong Belgian army ready to mount a counter attack, the Germans went on the rampage.
Men were dragged from their houses in front of their terrified families, beaten and killed. An eighty-three-year-old was tied up, forced to watch his house burn, was bayoneted, then shot. In an orgy of arson, houses, shops and the medieval town centre were destroyed. At half past eleven that night, the university library was set ablaze with petrol. Anyone trying to save the books or douse the flames was shot. In the morning all that was left were four walls and a heap of ashes, just one building amongst the two thousand others in the fires that raged for the next three days.
Hundreds were shot as they tried to escape the flames. Ten thousand Belgians were expelled, some to be shot, and well over a thousand deported to Germany. The police force was rounded up and killed. The Catholic clergy and the university professors, who the Germans believed to be ringleaders in the opposition, were singled out for violence and, in many cases, execution.
It was no wonder, thought Anthony, as he looked at Father Barrett’s appalled face, that the idea of a nun living in Louvain was a shocking thought.
‘Are you sure the poor woman is still alive?’ asked Father Barrett.
Sir Charles nodded. ‘Fairly sure, Father.’ He, too, looked shocked.
The first month of the war had left a swathe of desolation from the river Meuse over the border into France – the destruction of Leffe, Dinant, Reims and a raft of villages with their torched houses and heaps of corpses were vivid in everyone’s mind – but the savagery inflicted on Louvain was absolute.
Farther Barrett gave a deep sigh, his lips moving in a silent prayer, then he shook himself. His eyes focused on the list of words on the desk. ‘If Sister Marie-Eugénie really is in the Louvain house, then I worry for her safety. The Germans seem to have a hatred of our clergy. I once visited the cathedral of St Pierre in Louvain. The destruction of the cathedral was an act of absolute barbarism.’
Yes, the cathedral was no more, but, thought Anthony with a jolt of hope, surely the orphanage must still survive. No one would conspire to leave a child in a building that didn’t exist. Milly was alive, Sister Marie-Eugénie was alive, and the building must still stand. The alternative was something Anthony could not bear thinking of.
Father Barrett pulled the list towards him and read it over the top of his spectacles. ‘So what have we got?’ He rested his chin on his hand, frowning. ‘I believe,’ he said after a few seconds thought, ‘that I have a map of Louvain, a souvenir of my visit. Give me a few moments, gentlemen, and I should be able to lay my hands on it.’
He went to the bookshelf and, after a few minutes’ search, pulled out a squat red volume. ‘Here we are. Baedeker’s Belgique et Hollande.’ He rifled through the pages, then unfolded a map.
Anthony and Sir Charles bent over it. ‘We’re looking for a street name that ends in nes,’ muttered Sir Charles. ‘The trouble is that this map only gives the principal streets.’
‘What about this?’ said Anthony, pointing to a road on the outskirts of the town. ‘The Rempart de Malines. That’d fit the bill.’
‘So it would,’ exclaimed Father Barrett, whose enthusiasm for the search had clearly grown. ‘Let me write this down.’
He picked up a pencil and filled in the words in a neat, spiky, hand. ‘Sister Marie-Eugénie, Sæurs de la Miséricorde Bénie de Dieu, Rempart de Malines, Louvain.’
Anthony took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. Looking up, he caught Sir Charles’ expression and asked a question with his eyes.
Sir Charles caught his meaning and froze, working out the implications of what they had discovered. Then, with some reluctance, he slowly nodded.
Anthony understood. He had just been given permission to go to Louvain.
EIGHTEEN
As they came out of the shadow of the surrounding trees, Anthony felt the warning pressure of a hand on his shoulder.
‘Get down.’ The words were a whisper.
Obediently Anthony sank to his knees, flattening himself into the boggy bare earth between the tall clumps of stiff marsh grass.
Beside him, the smuggler, Lucien Voltèche, dropped to the ground, remaining completely still as a searchlight picked out the uneven ground in blinding whiteness with sharp-edged black shadows. The searchlight moved on. Anthony, who’d been unconsciously holding his breath, breathed once more.
The series of events that had brought him to crouch in a muddy field on the border between Holland and Belgium had started three days ago.
The afternoon following their discoveries in Westminster Cathedral, Anthony received a note asking him to meet Talbot in the smoking-room of his club at half past six.
Anthony wasn’t surprised by the choice of venue. Sir Charles had a theory that the more secrecy surrounding a meeting, the greater was the chance of being discovered.
The smoking-room, as Sir Charles predicted, was deserted. He had a guest with him, who he introduced as Peter Jager.
‘It’s not the name I was born with,’ said Jager, settling into his green leather armchair. ‘But these, as the Chinese apparently say, are interesting times, Dr Brooke.’
Anthony liked the look of Peter Jager, whatever his real name might be. He was a stocky, capable looking man, a South African Boer, one of the many who’d followed General Jan Smuts to fight with the allies against the Central Powers.
Jager lit the cigar Sir Charles had offered him and sipped his whisky and soda. ‘I gather you speak perfect German, Dr Brooke.’
This wasn’t time for false modesty. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘That’s good,’ said Jager in approval. ‘Do you speak Dutch?’
Anthony hesitated. ‘I’ve picked up some. Dutch has a lot in common with German and English. I can usually understand Dutch but I couldn’t pass as a Dutchman.’
‘That’s a pity. You see, the place where you’re going—’ Jager carefully avoided the mention of Louvain – ‘is a Flemish speaking area and anyone with good Dutch can pass for a native. How’s your French?’
Anthony frowned. ‘Not bad, but I doubt if I’d be able to fool another Frenchman into believing I was French.’
‘That’s a pity. My first idea was to send you in as a Belgian, but that’s probably too risky.’ Jager put his head on one side, sizing him up. ‘I think you’d better be a doctor. A German doctor.’
Anthony turned to Sir Charles. ‘Is that possible? Can you get hold of the correct uniform and papers and so on?’
‘Leave it with me, Brooke.’
‘That’s a good plan,’ said
Jager. ‘Your destination is out of the fighting line but there’s at least one hospital there that’s used for treating infectious cases.’
‘A Seuchenlazarette,’ said Anthony. He smiled at Sir Charles’ expression. ‘All the name means is disease hospital, but the Germans separate the classes of patients depending on their condition and allocate them to hospitals accordingly.’ He stopped. ‘Religious sisters – nuns – are often drafted in as nursing staff,’ he added slowly. ‘Seuchenlazarettes are usually set up in suitable buildings, such as schools and convents.’
Jager looked at Anthony with respect. ‘You know quite a lot about it, Dr Brooke.’
Anthony knocked the ash off his cigar. ‘I worked in the university hospital in Berlin for the first months of the war.’
Jager nodded approvingly. He pulled on his cigar for a few moments, then sat forward. ‘There’s two ways of getting into Belgium. Flying and walking. Mr Monks has guaranteed the co-operation of the Flying Corps.’
‘Isn’t that risky?’ asked Anthony.
‘It can be,’ conceded Jager. ‘Aircraft are noisy machines and the distances involved make it tricky as regards fuel. For a short hop over the lines, that’s the way I’d recommend, but we want more than that. How do you feel about a parachute jump?’
Anthony winced. He had never liked heights. ‘Not great. Parachutes can fail to open.’
‘We could have you in Belgium by tomorrow night,’ prompted Sir Charles temptingly. ‘You’d have to go at night, obviously.’
‘Yes …’ Anthony appreciated Talbot’s desire to help, but he certainly wasn’t leaping into the dark, parachute or not. If he had to fly he would, but he’d never been in an aeroplane and the idea that his first flight would be in the dark, over enemy country, with the petrol running low, didn’t fill him with enthusiasm.
Jager looked at him appraisingly. ‘It’s obviously not your first choice, Dr Brooke,’ he said, stroking his stubby beard. ‘If you’ll be guided by me, though, I’d recommend getting into Belgium on foot but using an aeroplane for your return. Even if the Germans realize one of our aircraft have landed, you can be miles away before they work out where it touched down.’
‘All right,’ agreed Anthony cautiously. ‘That’s a possibility. How about getting into Belgium? I thought I might go in under the cover of one of the American Belgian Relief convoys.’
Sir Charles gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘We can’t do that.’
‘No, we can’t.’ Jager was definite. ‘For one thing, the Americans wouldn’t agree. The volunteers are all Americans and are kept under strict German observation. In addition, the Germans only allow the relief to enter the country because of America’s absolute assurance that the sole purpose of the convoy is relief. If you’re caught, you’d cause an almighty row between Britain and America, you and everyone with you would be shot, and the programme will be cancelled. Belgium would starve.’
Anthony raised his eyebrows. To be the man who starved Belgium, was responsible for a mass execution – himself included amongst the dead – and the cause of a major diplomatic row wasn’t something he wanted to be remembered for.
‘OK, so that’s out.’ He drew on his cigar. ‘So how do I get into Belgium then?’
Jager glanced round the room, then hunched forward in his chair, lowering his voice. ‘If you don’t want to fly, the most practical way is to get you over to Rotterdam and introduce you to the White Lady.’
Anthony glanced at Talbot. He obviously knew who the White Lady was, but Anthony had never heard of the woman. ‘Who is she?’
Jager gave a short laugh. ‘The Germans would love to know. They’re frightened of her. The Hohenzollerns – the Kaiser and all his many relations – have a family legend, a myth, of the curse of the White Lady. They don’t know if the White Lady is a real woman or a ghost, but her appearance is supposed to signal the downfall of their house. And I can only hope that’s one myth that proves to have a foundation in fact.’
Anthony was impressed. ‘So who is she?’
Jager’s grin broadened. ‘The White Lady isn’t a woman but the Germans think she is. She scares them. The White Lady is actually an organization set up by my chief.’ He nodded at Sir Charles. ‘Mr Monks knows who my chief is and what the White Lady does.’
‘The information the White Lady provides is priceless,’ agreed Sir Charles. ‘It’s run under the auspices of British Intelligence and paid for by London, but it’s an independent service.’
‘We can be more flexible that way,’ said Jager. ‘We don’t have to ask permission before we can take action. We have over a thousand Belgian and French men and women who monitor troop movements in the occupied territories.’
‘That’s right,’ put in Sir Charles. ‘Documents can be forged and agents can be fed lies, but you can’t mistake the presence of divisions massing for an attack. That information is priceless.’
‘Thanks,’ said Jager softly. ‘Naturally,’ he continued, ‘any information, no matter how pressing, is only of any use if we can get it into the hands of British Intelligence. That’s where our couriers come into play.’ He looked sharply at Anthony. ‘You know about the border fence?’
‘I’ve heard of it, certainly,’ said Anthony.
In the first year of the war, the small Belgian army had been swelled by thousands of young Belgians who had braved the frontier and crossed into Holland. The German border guards, the Landsturmers, were drawn from the ranks of the recovering wounded. A return to full health meant a return to the misery of the front. Weary and disaffected, a generous bribe and an easy desertion into Holland was an attractive option for many Landsturmers. The Imperial Army, alarmed by the escape of so many Belgians and the constant loss of troops, took action.
The sentries were replaced by fully fit men, handpicked from those who had influential relations and large estates in Germany. They had far too much to lose by desertion. In addition, an eight-foot-high fence, running the entire length of the hundred and eighty-mile border between Belgium and Holland, was constructed.
‘I know a good few men have been killed trying to get across the border,’ said Anthony. ‘The fence is electrified, isn’t it?’
Jager nodded. ‘The fence carries a charge of two thousand volts. The Dutch call it the Dodendraad.’
‘Wire of the dead,’ said Anthony.
‘Exactly, Dr Brooke,’ said Jager. ‘The Dead Wire. It’s a killer. In addition, there’s sentries every hundred yards, searchlights, dogs, Secret Service Police and mounted patrols. Belgium is a prison and the Dodendraad is the prison wall.’
Anthony winced. ‘So how do your couriers get across? If it comes to that, how do I get across?’
Jager smiled. ‘We’ll get you through, Dr Brooke, don’t worry.’ He swirled his whisky round his glass. ‘The Germans rely on the lethal power of their fence. They’ve invested thousands of marks to make it impregnable. I’m glad to say that not a week goes by without us proving they’re wrong.’
As the searchlight moved on, Anthony heard the crunch of booted feet. A dog barked from somewhere close at hand. Lucien Voltèche put his hand between Anthony’s shoulder blades, pressing him down. The two men lay rigidly still. ‘Patrols,’ he murmured, his mouth close to Anthony’s ear.
Even though they were still on the Dutch side of the border, they were in acute danger. The guards would shoot anyone within five hundred yards of the fence, no matter what side of the border they were on.
From his constricted viewpoint between the clumps of marsh grass, Anthony saw the dark outlines of two guards with a German Shepherd dog pause directly across from them, on the other side of the fence. The dog whined and pulled at the leash. Anthony hardly dared breathe.
The guards were about thirty yards away, but their voices carried on the still night air.
‘The dog’s restless,’ said one. He clicked on his flashlight and swept it in a circle over the ground. The dog pounced forward, pulling the guard with him, as a hare, startle
d by the light, shot from behind the two guards and, terrified by the dog, leapt into the fence. There was an electric blue flash, a sizzle and a thump as the body of the hare was flung away from the fence.
The smell of burnt flesh and fire drifted towards them. That meant, thought Anthony with a stab of gratitude, that they were downwind of the dog.
The guard swore and pulled back the excited animal. ‘Down, Berg!’ he snarled. ‘Leave the hare,’ he said to his companion. ‘They’re never worth eating once they’ve been fried.’ He flashed the light over the ground once more. ‘Come on. No one’s attempting the crossing tonight. No one’s ever escaped through my sector.’
Beside him, Anthony heard Lucien Voltèche grunt quietly but dismissively. ‘That’s all he knows,’ he whispered in Flemish as the two guards walked on down the line of the fence. Anthony knew enough Dutch to make sense of the words.
Voltèche waited for the searchlight to sweep past them once more, then pulled his knapsack off his shoulders and reached inside. He took out two pairs of rubber gloves and what looked like big rubber socks, gesturing for Anthony to put them on. Once more they waited for the searchlight to pass, then, re-shouldering the knapsack, Voltèche led the way, creeping towards the fence.
Even with the rubber gloves and socks, it was a nervy business getting through the fence. The strands of wire were about a foot apart. Voltèche held up the bottom strand and motioned to Anthony to wriggle under the wire.
Flattening himself as close to the ground as he could, Anthony went under. He tried not to think of the hare, of that blue flash and the hideous sizzle that the slightest brush against the wire would bring. Breathing deeply, he got to his knees on the other side.
Voltèche grunted in approval. Anthony lifted the wire and Voltèche first passed his knapsack through then, with seeming nonchalance, wriggled underneath. Taking off his rubber socks, he thrust them, together with Anthony’s, into his bag.
The Price of Silence Page 15
