‘We’ll go through this stuff I’ve brought you, presently. And associated detail. Hope I picked the right clothes. I’ve got the make-up you wanted – Max Factor, pancake. Not as dark as whatever that muck is… Oh, we’re giving you a new code-name – as of now you’re Masha.’
Lise’s influence, perhaps – she being of White Russian parentage. Or an abbreviation of Marchéval? Easy way to remember it anyway, in case of memory failure. She’d shrugged: ‘Masha. All right.’
‘I’ve brought the A Mark III, plus one-time pad, et cetera, set of three crystals, and a note of your new radio checks for you to memorize. Here, with the small fortune you asked for?’ A package she’d had inside her jump-suit. Thirty thousand francs, in there – or should be; she’d be able to afford her own black-market cigarettes now, at least. Marilyn telling her, ‘As soon as you’re there and functional we’ll expect a message, Masha on line, followed by any news you have for us. Thereafter, listening out and transmission schedules as you’ll find listed with the radio checks, but initially listen out every night midnight to 0100 – after you’ve set the ball rolling. Emergency procedure transmission any time, of course.’
‘I’ll destroy the notes before we push off for Troyes in the morning.’
‘So you’ll be in Troyes – or even St Valéry-sur-Vanne – by tomorrow evening?’
‘Depending on Victor Dufay and transportation. Or getting a bike, maybe. But I’ll have rather a lot of gear for that. You’ll hear from me when you hear from me, that’s all. Guillaume’s taking me as far as Troyes in his gazo.’
‘Good for him. But now – pushing this along a bit, Rosie – subject of the rocket casings. The measurements you gave us do tally, roughly, with other received Intelligence. This is confirmed by SIS – your old chums, who wouldn’t normally want us within miles of a job like this, but Buck told them he hoped it’d be you doing it and they’re happy. Measurements of the completed rockets – warhead and casing – are forty-six feet long, diameter five feet six inches. Diameter over the fins eleven feet seven inches. Your casings won’t have fins – presumably – one imagines they’d be made somewhere else, assembled somewhere else too – but allowing for the length of forty-six feet including warhead, your casing length of about twelve metres could be about right. The body diameter’s a bit out. So – confirmation of dimensions, plus detail of screw-holes or fixing points, or whatever for fins and warhead. And where the casings go when they’re shipped out, either for partial or final assembly – it’d be terrific to know where – and how many per flatbed truck, how many trucks per road convoy, and how often. Notice of departure of a convoy, if we knew its route, could lead to RAF intervention – straffing by Mosquitoes for instance. We have a very recent air-recce photo of the village, by the way, a good one. I didn’t bring it – you wouldn’t need it, and it would be compromising.’
‘Not knowing who’d be receiving you. This is much more an SIS than an SOE job, isn’t it?’
‘Vital we should all muck in, anyway. There’s extreme concern at the highest level, I can tell you – at the V2 threat. Incidentally, the Germans have given it a code-name “A4”. If you hear or see that designation anywhere around, we’ll know what we’re on to right away, mightn’t need any other checks. But – enormously important, this, Rosie. Especially as it seems unlikely we’ll over-run the launch sites before the damn things are ready. Obviously the Marchéval factory won’t be the only source. SIS had assumed it would all be happening in Germany. They’re highly destructive missiles – so much so that numbers might be limited by cost – each one’s said to be six times as expensive as a Junkers 88. Far more of a menace than the flying bombs.’
‘What’s the picture with them, now?’
‘Not as bad as it looked to start with. Eighty per cent are being destroyed in the air, AA batteries have been shifted to the coast, double benefit through leaving the air inland free for RAF to operate. Fighters have been shooting them down, even tipping them over with a wing-tip. Slightly hazardous, no doubt. But you can see them coming, shoot them down – with the V2s no such hope, straight up into the stratosphere and down at Christ knows what speed soundlessly and invisibly, no warning, just a huge, devastating explosion.’
‘Totally indiscriminate.’
‘Oh, yes. It’s a terror weapon, nothing else. Anyway – the Marchéval factory. If we can be certain those are casings for V2s, we’re guaranteed an air-strike – code-name “Jupiter” already allocated, night-bombing attack in sufficient strength to wipe the place out – targeting the manor as well. Manor’s shown clearly in our photograph – taken by a Spit on Friday, incidentally.’
‘Well – all I’ve got’s a rough sketch. I made this copy for you, but obviously you don’t need it.’ She’d had it in a pocket. ‘Dufay drew it, for Michel.’ Unfolding it… ‘There. That’s the manor. Match the photo, does it?’
Marilyn was turning it, to see it from a western perspective – the way the attack would go in, presumably. Nodding: ‘Yes, near-enough the same. This squiggle’s the Vanne – right? Which flows into the Yonne – out here.’ Off the paper, a long way west of St Valéry. ‘Hereabouts, place called Sens?’
‘Exactly. Good. I was looking at a map too – Guillaume’s pianist’s. Sens is the place. The Yonne flows north into the Seine, of course. I was imagining they’d come down east of Paris, find Sens and turn sharp left, on course for St Valéry. They’d pick up my “S” phone beam pretty well immediately. I’d be here – not far from the manor, that side of it, the approach side…’ Glancing round to where her stuff was piled. ‘Had thought of asking for a Eureka beacon. But if I can I might have a bonfire lit, somewhere between the manor and the factory – i.e. the village, same thing. I’d have to confirm all that before the event, of course; not having seen the place yet, one’s flying blind.’
‘Don’t put yourself too close to the manor.’
‘And get bombed oneself, you mean. But we do want the manor hit. There’ll be no lights visible, obviously – with Boches in residence – and a smallish target – trees all round it, by the look of this. Be over it before they saw it. I know the factory’s the big thing, but “Hector”’s not unimportant, is he?’
‘Certainly is not. Although that’s only a fairly long-shot hope. As you say, priority has to be the factory. And remember your last bombing target, Rosie, Châteauneuf-du-Faou – Château Trevarez. I can tell you a lot more bombs fell around it than on it. They hit it all right, but—’
‘Bombs falling round it should have dropped on a fair concentration of Boches who were expecting a Maquis assault, not the RAF.’ The night she’d had to run for it, night of the car smash. ‘Didn’t they?’
‘Yes. As it happened. You saw it from a distance, we heard.’
‘Heard how?’
‘SIS man you were with – crashed that car?’
‘So he made it back…’
‘He was devastated at having to leave you. Could hardly have carried you, though – what, sixty or seventy miles. We got the whole story from him, of course: and then from Morlaix that you’d been moved to Paris by the Gestapo. Christ, but you’ve been through it, haven’t you… Once again, back to the point – bombing’s not always as accurate, and if you’re swarming around in the manor’s grounds—’
‘I’ll put myself a safe distance west. Terrain permitting. Due west, and the “S” phone beam on the reciprocal of the manor’s bearing from me. According to this sketch the line’d be about five degrees south of due east, and I might aim to have a bonfire – well, say here – depending on access, et cetera?’
‘Otherwise just the “S” phone. Should be enough for them, surely. But – OK…’ Lighting her own second cigarette; Rosie’s was barely stub; she wasn’t wasting any. Marilyn nodded. ‘We’ll listen out for you on your night-crystal frequency – tomorrow evening’d be a bit soon to hope for, let’s say midnight to 0100 Monday and Tuesday. If we hear from you Monday night, you’ll hear from us on Tuesday – o
therwise Wednesday. Listen out on the night after your first transmission, and let’s assume that’ll be Tuesday at the latest – Masha on line plus whatever you have for us. If it’s positive, we’ll send you “Jupiter” with a date and time, and you acknowledge confirming the target-marking detail.’
‘What about a message personnel for “Jupiter”, while we’re at it?’
‘Why not. Let’s say “Even in mid-summer the nights are sometimes cool.”’
She repeated it. Flattening her cigarette stub; the candle wasn’t going to last much longer either. ‘One other thought, though. Do we need to be completely certain that the casings are for V2s? Since it’s so urgent and important mightn’t we just assume they are?’
Decisive shake of the head: Virginia tobacco-smoke pluming. ‘For one thing the RAF’s at full stretch. Aircraft, crews and other resources not to be wasted on what may be – well, anything, Rosie – boilers, ventilation trunking – portable urinals for Hitler Youth, for God’s sake – and second, there are sound reasons quite apart from plain old-fashioned humanity not to blast a whole French village into kingdom come just as it were on spec.’
She nodded. ‘All right.’
‘Another point is urgency. Shouldn’t take you long, should it? Your auberge proprietor must have contacts in Marchéval’s, let him work on them, and let’s hear from you soon – OK?’
A small smile. ‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘It does happen to be as important as any brief you’ve ever had, Rosie.’
‘I realize…’
‘So – next on the agenda – André Marchéval.’
‘Where we came in, you might say.’ Shaking out another Senior Service. ‘May I? Local things are going to taste foul after this… Anyhow – Guillaume’s view is you’d want the sod caught – apprehended, not killed.’ Leaning to the flare of Marilyn’s lighter. ‘Because there’d be information to be got out of him – primarily what’s happened to agents who’ve disappeared. But would he know? I mean once the swine’s shopped them—’
‘In some cases he might. Potential value to us being one, remote chance of tracing an individual to some camp or prison where he or she might have survived, and two, arrest and trial of those responsible. But how you’d “apprehend” him—’
‘Exactly. Especially as according to Dufay the locals think well of the father – Henri Marchéval – and some – including Dufay I think – believe his son’s an agent of SOE. I know, how secure can you get? But it could be difficult for an outsider to get much cooperation, on that basis – might even be safer not to ask for it.’
‘How about the couple at the auberge?’
‘Don’t know.’ A shrug. ‘See how it turns out. But I don’t have to ask anything about André, don’t have to know of his existence. Only thing I’d like to have clear – now – is if he does show up, am I authorized to kill him?’
Marilyn removed a shred of tobacco from her lip. Perfectly manicured nails, as always. Telling Rosie carefully, ‘We want him alive or dead, and appreciate that taking him alive might be very difficult. So – yes. But bear this in mind, Rosie – if he knows you escaped and that you’re still at large—’
‘Guillaume was going on about that. But he can’t know, none of them can. I could have done a flit like tonight’s weeks ago – or I could be dead!’
‘Could easily. Too easily. God’s sake don’t push your luck, Rosie. Don’t ask about him in the village. Just don’t be tempted. From what you said, he’ll still have friends there – not to mention a father. If he heard even a whisper he’d only have to mention it to his Gestapo chums – very much “Hector” style, wouldn’t have to show his face.’
‘But – minuscule as the chances are – in the event he does show up, and the even unlikelier one he agreed to be brought back for debriefing—’
‘Fifty to one against?’
‘At least, but—’
‘All right – a réseau in that area – “Patriarch”, shut down a few months ago. Organizer was a Frenchman named Lambert – used a field known as “Parnassus”. Unless you gave us reason not to, we’d use that.’
‘As always, you’ve done your homework.’
‘I have, naturally, but – easy, both starting with “P”, and those a’s. That’s it, anyway – a call for urgent pick-up from “Parnassus”, we’d have a Hudson there either that night or the one after. Say between midnight and 0200, the pilot’ll be expecting “S” phone reception, and for a message personnel let’s say, “The beech trees are at their best in autumn.”’
‘If there was time for messages personnels.’
‘Of course. Better change this candle, hadn’t we? Rosie – whatever you do, I mean a propos “Hector” – extreme discretion, obviously…’
Chapter 10
She’d asked Marilyn, soon after they’d lit the new candle, what Bob Hallowell’s standing in ‘F Section was now, following the revelations about ‘Hector’.
Out in the field called Xanadu now, waiting for the Hudson, and thinking back to that discussion, in particular racking their brains for anything they should have discussed and hadn’t. Guillaume standing ready with the ‘S’ phone, Fernand Déchambaud beside him with the white signal-lamp, Guérin and Lemartin out on the flanks of what would be the Hudson’s landing run. Groslin was patrolling around the field’s perimeter, in the cover of the trees, and no doubt keeping an eye on his van. Rosie and Marilyn were sitting on the container, which in due course would be loaded into the Hudson.
That question about Hallowell, though: he was the major on ‘F’ Section’s staff, who in Maurice Buckmaster’s absence at the end of April had conducted Rosie’s farewell briefing on the day of her departure on this last deployment. He’d insisted that, despite rumours, ‘Hector’ was entirely trustworthy. He’d known him a long time, had every faith in him; he was being brought back, he said, only to clear the air – he’d described it as ‘going through the motions’ – adding that he happened to know ‘Hector’’s chief accuser was motivated by sexual jealousy, ‘Hector’ having pinched that individual’s girl.
‘Always did have a bit of a roving eye. Doesn’t make him a traitor, does it?’
And since everyone now knew he was a traitor, that disastrously wrong assessment would surely have become a crisis issue.
Marilyn had told her, ‘He’s on indefinite sick leave. Official line, anyway. He may be facing a court-martial.’
Rosie remembered Michel asking her in Thérèse’s attic, ‘Any doubt of him?’ Raising the possibility of treachery right there in Baker Street: and her own sense of shock at the very notion. She’d dismissed it even as a possibility when Michel had brought it up again in Metz, just recently. Marilyn explaining, ‘Question is how “Hector” wasn’t rumbled a lot sooner, and another was how Bob went on sticking up for him.’
‘You say a question was. Meaning it’s been answered?’ Wondering also whether ‘sticking up’ might mean ‘covering for’… Meanwhile, during this part of their talk she’d been going through the things Marilyn had brought with her. The clothes were well chosen, and had no English labels. Shaking her head: ‘Hard to believe he’s a traitor – secret Nazi, or—’
‘No. Not that, quite.’
‘What, then?’
Visualizing him as he’d looked to her that day of the briefing. A thin man with a grey, pinched look; she hadn’t known him at all well, had never had much to do with him, but she knew he was a dug-out, with an MC from the ’14–’18 war. Vintage about 1900, she guessed, straight from school into that war in its last year or two.
Marilyn had been lighting a cigarette. Telling her now, ‘The answer’s cherchez la femme – in the person of Helen Marchéval.’
‘André’s mother? Who wert in Scotland?’
‘Art in Scotland. Aberdeenshire, in her brother’s house – brother’s in the Eighth Army in Italy. Wouldn’t be surprised if that’s where Bob will hole up now – if he’s at liberty to. Not Italy – Aberdeen… Rosie, Buc
k let me hear this in confidence, so – under your hat? Bob H. was being interrogated at the time, in one of our places in the country – soon after Lise got back, and while she was being debriefed. Buck had just seen some preliminary report. But apparently they were lovers – Bob and Helen Marchéval – before the war, and I think the inference was that they still are, and that it would have been at least partly why she left her husband and came back in 1940. Even if at the time it might have looked like just getting out from under. She’d been spending as much time in Scotland as in France in any case; and André was over here too of course – university and after. Papa trying to get him back to France to join him in the business, and he wouldn’t go. Unlike the daughter – André’s sister Claire – no, I hadn’t heard of her before either – but according to Bob she never got on with her mother and disapproved of her liaison with Bob. Probably would have – could have been the primary reason for their “not getting on”. Apparently she – Claire – never left France at all. But do you remember Bob telling us in that briefing session that André wouldn’t go back to join Papa because he was enjoying himself too much over here? Thirty-eight, thirty-nine that would have been. And he presumably didn’t mind about his mother’s carrying on – which might indicate a somewhat feckless character?’
Rosie nodded. ‘But rather surprising Buck telling you all this?’
‘He had a few of us together to see if we had any contributions to make. Bob’s social life, et cetera. I didn’t – I’d never seen him outside the building.’
‘I’d hardly have thought he was capable of it, frankly. I mean the romance thing. Dry old stick… But is the conclusion that he was covering for “Hector” – knowing he was a traitor?’
‘I’d say not – Buck seems to think not. One wouldn’t want to think it, of course. You’re right, though, it’s very much the question that needs answering. My guess is he honestly believed in André. OK, stupid – perhaps blindly loyal to Helen—’
In at the Kill Page 21
