by Kurt Magenta
He forced himself away from the store and back to his stroll, turning into the grand sweep of Regent Street and eventually arriving at the aptly-named Piccadilly Circus: a ring of buildings, plastered with advertising hoardings, surrounding a boarded-up statue.
He passed the Criterion Theatre – currently being used by the BBC to record radio plays – and crossed to the junction of Great Windmill Street, where he knew there were a couple of decent pubs, not to mention a notorious nightclub. But there was something he needed to do before the evening could really begin.
The death of the Belgian at Olympia Hall was still gnawing away at him. Had there been something sinister about it? Or was that just his imagination embroidering an already strange new reality? In any case, he knew who could help him find out.
He approached a red telephone box, digging into the breast pocket of his blouson. By the time he’d closed the door and lifted the receiver, he was holding the torn-off lid of a packet of Gitanes. He placed it on the shelf by the phone, fed the slot with pennies and dialled the number.
After a brief crackle, the line cleared and a crisp female voice said, ‘Minimax Insurance. How may I help you?’
He thumbed button A and heard the coins clatter.
‘I was asked to give you a message.’
There was a pause. Then: ‘Go ahead, please.’
The words lodged in his throat – they sounded foolish out of context. Still, he was here now. Vas y! Parle!
He said: ‘I’m ready to taste the ’26 vintage.’
Chapter 7
The Gargoyle Club
Winston Churchill met Admiral François Darlan, the head of the French navy, a long way from the sea. The encounter took place on June 12 1940 at the elegant Château du Muguet, landlocked in the very centre of France. Other members of the Anglo-French Supreme War Council were also present. France had fallen, the Nazis were advancing, and the talk was of surrender.
Darlan assured Churchill that he would never let the French fleet fall into Nazi hands. Churchill chose not to trust him.
On July 2, the commanders of French naval vessels stranded in Plymouth and Portsmouth received an unexpected overture from their British counterparts. They were invited to join their allies aboard British ships for a glass of port and a civilised chat. There were card games and cigars, crackly dance band music on the radio.
During that same evening, armed British sailors swarmed onto the French vessels and captured them. Four men – three British, one French – died in an exchange of gunfire aboard the submarine Surcouf.
Operation Catapult had begun.
A significant portion of the French navy was at that moment anchored in the port of Mers el Kebir in Algeria. On July 3, three British battleships and an aircraft carrier waited at the entrance to the harbour. At 5.40 pm, on Churchill’s orders, they opened fire.
The French ships were confined and pointing in the wrong direction. In terms of a fistfight, it was like being pushed face first into a corner by one assailant while another rains blows on your shoulders, back and ribcage. When a broadside hit the French ship Bretagne – a hardy veteran of the First World War – her magazine exploded, killing nearly a thousand men. The captains of three remaining ships chose to run their vessels aground rather than risk sinking with all hands.
The French battleship Strasbourg managed to escape the harbour, avoid the mines laid by the British and survive two attacks by Swordfish torpedo bombers. Eventually she limped into the port of Toulon.
Elsewhere, the British submarine HMS Pandora sank a French gunboat sailing out of Oran. A couple of days later, Swordfish planes torpedoed the French battleship Richelieu in Dakar.
Operation Catapult claimed more than 1,300 French lives.
On the morning of Friday July 5, Lucien Cortel arrived at Aldershot Camp with orders to convince abandoned French soldiers to join the Free French Forces and fight alongside their allies: the British.
Lucien and Chenard went to see the camp’s commanding officer, who had grudgingly agreed to meet them. He wore a superb brush moustache and a sceptical expression.
‘Talk to them if you wish, distribute your tract if you must – but I expect you’ll get a cool welcome,’ he told them. ‘Even before North Africa, most of the men were thinking in terms of repatriation. Petain’s threats don’t help – and he still carries a great deal of clout.’
It was said that Petain believed all French soldiers on British soil were morally obliged to return home. If they did not, he would consider them traitors.
‘What about de Gaulle?’ asked Chenard. ‘What do the men think of him?’
The old soldier’s eyes glittered maliciously. ‘I’d say they’re divided into two camps. Those who’ve never heard of him. And those who couldn’t care less.’
It was the same story everywhere: hostility and derision from the British, cynicism and suspicion from the French. At the end of the first week they were back in London – a welcome break before heading to the camps in the north.
Before their departure Lucien had written somewhat reluctantly to his aunt and uncle in Winchester. Aunt Patricia’s reply was waiting for him at their digs. It informed him that Uncle Geoffrey was in the Home Guard and they were both bearing up well. She was delighted to have news of her sister, about whom she was ‘fearfully worried’. ‘A while ago we had words, which I now regret,’ she added. ‘I hope this may in some way make amends.’ With the letter was a postal order for twenty pounds.
‘Wealthy relatives are a wonderful thing,’ observed Chenard drily, although he was never short of funds.
On the streets, uniforms now seemed to outnumber civilian clothes: berets and caps bobbed above a shifting landscape of khaki and beige, crisscrossed with rivers of navy and air force blue. Gold and silver braid snaked across shoulders and chests. The cheerful blue cloaks of the nurses were lined with blood red.
The sense of anticipation had mounted since they’d been away. Almost all of the windows were crisscrossed with tape that was supposed to stop them bursting into daggers of glass when the bombs fell. There were more hand-painted signs pointing the way to air raid shelters. But beyond the background hum of tension, summer ran its course. During the day people lounged in deckchairs in Green Park. Sunshine glossed the silver bellies of the lowered barrage balloons. Sailors on leave rowed delighted girls across the Serpentine.
And the warm nights, dark satin under the blued blackout lamps, were charged with promise.
Thanks to a contact at The York Minister, Chenard had managed to get them into The Gargoyle Club, one of the most fashionable nightspots in Soho. They entered through the downstairs restaurant, decorated with mosaic mirror tiles and a silvered ceiling, so the bohemian crowd could admire its reflection from every angle. A red-carpeted stairway took them to the more intimate upstairs bar, where a silken canopy of cigarette smoke complemented the Moorish decor. Little bistro-style tables were scattered around but almost everyone was standing, as if at a cocktail party.
‘Who are all these people?’ asked Lucien.
Chenard shrugged. ‘Artists, writers, aristocratic flotsam. See that?’ He indicated a painting on the wall: the simple yet vivid style looked vaguely familiar. ‘Matisse. He was a founding member. Let’s get a drink, shall we? The house speciality is Pimm’s with a dash of curaçao.’
It occurred to Lucien that a room at the top of a building in the West End was one of the most dangerous places to be in the summer of 1940. Which was presumably why they all liked it so much.
A little later he found himself alone while Chenard tried to get the attention of the barman. The first drink was taking effect and he felt flushed and confident. Scanning the well-dressed crowd, he locked eyes with somebody he knew.
She smiled, turned away and laid a hand on her handsome companion’s arm, obviously asking him to excuse her for a moment.
And now here she was: Anna Maddox in a sensational black silk evening dress and a string of pearls. A cigarette in one hand, a martini in the other. She allowed him to kiss her on both cheeks – he remembered her jasmine scent.
‘Well, bonsoir to you,’ she drawled. ‘I must say this is the last place I expected to find you. Decided to slum it this evening?’
‘Just looking around. I doubt I can afford to stay long.’
‘That uniform certainly becomes you. I won’t ask you what you get up to in it – careless talk, and all that.’
‘At least here we can have a conversation without the floor moving up and down.’
‘Don’t speak too soon. I’ll be counting on you to save me later.’
His attention was distracted. ‘Actually, I might have to save someone else first.’
He nodded to a spot across the room, where a tall Frenchman he recognised from St Stephen’s House appeared to be engaged in a stand-up row with the bespectacled man he’d seen at The York Minister.
‘Perhaps you should,’ she said. ‘The one with the glasses is called Goucher. He’s a reporter – the insistent kind.’
‘Looks like a clash of cultures. I’d better see what I can do.’
‘Ever the knight errant. Not to worry, I’ll be keeping a watchful eye on you.’
‘Which reminds me…’ He hesitated. ‘I called your father recently. He didn’t reply. I’d be happy to hear from him again.’
She smiled. ‘I’m sure he’s just waiting for an opportune moment. Away with you – go and do your bit for France. A bientôt.’
Anna slinked back to her companion. Lucien skirted the other guests until he arrived at the scene of the argument. The Frenchman’s face was livid and he looked ready to lash out. His compressed lips formed a second line below his pencil moustache. Now Lucien remembered the profile: on that first morning at St Stephen’s, a silhouette in a smoke-filled room, hushed tones and a sense of conspiracy.
Lucien said in French: ‘Sorry to interrupt, but I wonder if I might be of any help?’
The man named Goucher flashed him an angry glance, but the Frenchman looked grateful. He replied in their language, ‘This man keeps asking me questions. He speaks French like a Spanish cow, but I’m pretty sure he’s just accused us of being traitors.’
Lucien switched to English. ‘I’m sorry sir,’ he said to the journalist. ‘I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. Do you need me to translate?’
‘If you ask me he’s just being obtuse,’ Goucher snapped. ‘I’m writing a feature, you see, about the French in London. Just wanted to get a bit of background. Find out what you lot are up to.’
‘Feelings are running high after North Africa, I’m afraid. All I can tell you is that we’re with the Free French Forces, under General de Gaulle.’
‘Oh, I know all about de Gaulle. As far as I can see he’s trying to start his own private army.’
Lucien reached out and put his hand on Goucher’s shoulder. A bystander would have interpreted it as a friendly gesture, a bit of Latin body contact. Lucien squeezed a little and said, ‘Listen, I’m not sure this is the right moment. But I’m often at The York Minster. Perhaps we can talk there? I was a reporter myself, back in France.’
Either the offer or the steel in his fingers mollified the journalist.
‘All right, all right. It’s not as though I’m getting anywhere.’ He took out his wallet and handed Lucien a card. ‘Name’s Sam Goucher – of the Herald.’
‘Good evening, Mr Goucher.’
Goucher nodded at them both and slouched away.
Lucien turned to his compatriot. ‘A friend of mine was at the bar last time I looked. Shall we try and catch him?’
‘I rather think it’s my round. That was smoothly done: I was about to make an ugly scene.’ He extended his hand. ‘My name’s Roché, by the way.’
Lucien had no way of knowing whether this was true – many of the Free French, particularly if they were Jewish, had given themselves new identities. He shook the proffered hand and told the man his name.
‘I shouldn’t have let him get to me,’ Roché reproached himself. ‘He only picked on me because I was talking to his girlfriend. Don’t know where she ran off to.’ He glanced around as if he’d mislaid something, unconsciously running a palm over the black streaks of his brilliantined hair. ‘Delicious little blonde. But I can’t go talking to reporters. I’m with Passy.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Deuxième Bureau.’
Lucien knew what that meant – intelligence. He remembered Passy’s name on the door, the clear blue eyes.
‘Your secret’s safe with me,’ he said. But later as they talked over drinks he gradually realised he was making a subtle bid to be recruited. He recounted some of his adventures – keeping Maddox out of it – and made sure Roché knew who his father was. He could tell the man was impressed.
And that was when the trouble really began.
When they got back from the camps, just as he had predicted, everything changed. The morning after his return he was summoned to Vauthier’s office. The Lieutenant was standing at the window with his back to the room and his hands clasped at the base of his spine. The raised window admitted the plaintive burbling of pigeons and a faint odour of guano.
‘Sit down, will you?’ said Vauthier, without looking around. He waited until he was certain Lucien had done so. When he finally turned, his expression was an uneasy blend of admiration and contempt.
‘From tomorrow morning you’re to report to Passy,’ he said. ‘Apparently one of his officers recommended you personally. I don’t know what you’ve been up to, Cortel, but I suppose I should congratulate you. That was remarkably fast work.’
‘Merci, mon Lieutenant.’ Lucien tried to hide his delight. ‘Do you have any idea what my duties will be?’
‘Not specified. But apparently British intelligence have been sniffing around. Sooner or later they will ask for information, if not cooperation. Passy needs good English speakers – and he’s been led to believe you’re so English there’s tea in your veins.’
Since he appeared to be holding a winning hand, Lucien decided to push his luck a little further.
‘Passy should take Chenard, too.’
Vauthier stared at him. ‘Why on earth would he do that?’
‘Because Chenard’s a fixer. I’ve rarely seen anybody as skilled at getting what they want. I’m staying in his digs and he’s got the landlady eating out of his palm.’
He could see Vauthier’s mind ticking over, even if the Lieutenant did his best to disguise it. ‘I must say I don’t see why I should give up my best recruiter on a whim. Let us consider the matter closed, for now. In the meantime, I want a full report on your tour of the camps typed up and on my desk by the end of the day. Given your prior occupation, I’m sure you’re a fast writer.’
Passy’s group occupied a cramped nest of desks in a large, high-ceilinged room next to the office where Lucien had first encountered the chief of the intelligence bureau. Alongside Roché there was a burly, whey-faced man with a pock-marked potato of a nose and a glossy crest of black hair. He smoked a toxic pipe and called himself Duquesnoy, when he said anything at all. Lucien later discovered that he was responsible for managing the bureau’s minuscule budget.
The fourth member of the group, who arrived smiling ruefully towards the end of the first morning, was Chenard.
‘They say we’ll have to share a desk for the time being,’ he told Lucien. ‘I’d be happy to squat on the end. I don’t know how you did this, mon vieux – but thank you.’
In contrast to Duquesnoy, Roché was a charming and somewhat loquacious man. He entertained the new recruits by telling the story of how he and Passy had arrived in London.
‘I fought alongside him in Norway, retaking the port of Narvik from the Boche. Quel bordel. Freezing cold, snowing
hard enough to blind a man. There were a bunch of Legionnaires with us – wild devils, but brave as hell. Against all the odds, we managed to push the enemy back. And then, on June 8, the order came through to evacuate. Turned out Norway had surrendered: their King was already on his way to London.’
Passy and Roché were shipped first to Glasgow and then to Brest, where they were told to await further orders. But when they heard Pétain on the radio they boarded another ship, this time for Southampton. ‘We ended up with some of the legionnaires in Trentham Park Camp. After de Gaulle’s call, there was no doubt in our minds – we had to make our way to London and join the Free French.’
He related Passy’s meeting with the General. ‘De Gaulle stalked around the room on those heron legs of his, smoking furiously, as if he was half-listening to Passy while thinking about a thousand other things at once. Finally, when he became aware that nobody was talking, he turned around and said: “Very well, very well. You’ll be in charge of intelligence.” Which is how somebody with absolutely no experience in this business was made head of the Deuxième Bureau – and I became his second.’
Lucien wondered if he would ever meet de Gaulle. But for the time being he was more anxious to hear what Passy expected of him.
The call came more than two weeks later. Until then, he’d been left largely to his own devices. The most significant thing he’d achieved in all that time was to get hold of a wireless, as the nascent bureau still didn’t possess one. ‘It’s ridiculous,’ said Roché. ‘We have to listen to the one in the pub down the road. You’re our English liaison officer, Cortel. Go and find us one. And get us a good deal.’
Lucien went first to Harrods department store, which he knew had a glittering array of luxury items. Confronted by a range of Decca appliances – which were marginally smaller than grand pianos – he scratched his head at the prices. Out on the street, he found a telephone box with an intact phone book and located Decca Gramophone Limited in Brixton Road, London SW9.
