by Kurt Magenta
Hayes nodded. ‘Indeed. And here we get to the crux of the matter. Even before the fall of France, we began putting in place several networks that would enable us to receive intelligence from inside the country. Since then, we’ve augmented this with our own people, including wireless operators. For a while, useful information was scant. Then, suddenly, the situation changed.’
He paused, clearly enjoying his own speech.
‘We began receiving intelligence, good intelligence, about the Nazis’ set-up in Paris. Names, ranks, locations. Even, occasionally, information about movements of men and materiel in the occupied zone. It was sparse, but valuable. Maddox, now I believe I must hand the floor back to you.’
Lucien’s heart was drumming and he felt heat at his temples.
Maddox said, ‘As quickly as it started, the flow of information ceased. We need to find out why. And this is where you come in, Cortel. The intelligence came with a code name: Madrigal. I recognised it from the war. The previous one.’
Suddenly Lucien knew what was coming.
Maddox looked at him. ‘We have reason to believe that the information was being sent to us by André Dehix. The man you know as Uncle Dédé.’
Chapter 16
Cadet
‘We’ll send you to Aldercroft,’ Maddox had told him after the gathering at the hotel. Lucien had pictured an ivy-covered manor deep in the folds of the countryside – but it turned out that Aldercroft was a person.
He kept an office on the third floor of a narrow ashlar-clad building on Wardour Street. A plaque identified it as the premises of Sholto & Burnside, Publicity Agents. Lucien never met either man. Instead, Aldercroft: a lanky yet dapper figure who seemed to fold himself into his cramped office, with its darkly varnished wainscoting and a desk that was empty aside from a grey Bakelite reading lamp and a discarded copy of The Times.
Aldercroft was as silvery as the building he inhabited. A sprinkle of white hair over his pink skull, navy blue eyes, another frosty glimmer of moustache, a smoothly shaven chin. Always impeccable in a three-piece Prince of Wales check suit, maroon polka dot tie and matching pocket handkerchief. Long and slightly horsy teeth in his humourless smile. He could indeed have been a publicity agent. Or a lawyer, or a bookmaker. But he was indubitably a spy. Semi-retired, or so he claimed.
‘I’ll teach you as much as I can in the time allotted to us, but a lot of this game is about instinct,’ he said. ‘For instance, I could be a bore and tell you to trust no-one. But in a very practical sense that is not possible. You are obliged to trust people, all the time. The trick lies is knowing who to choose. Somewhere along the line you will make the wrong decision. After that, the trick is surviving your mistake.’
He taught Lucien dead drops and brush passes, the art of following, and not being followed, and shaking followers. London was a giant board game and they were the pieces, snaking in and out of its streets and alleyways, shops and pubs, parks and squares. Back at the office, there were lessons on Morse code and elementary ciphers. Aldercroft was patient but far from avuncular – Lucien imagined that English schoolmasters were rather like him.
The man had a history teacher’s affection for archaic English, too, often twisting it to suit his own purposes. Someone on your tail was a ‘footpad’, to lose them was to ‘scupper their show’, a traitor was a ‘peddler’ and an enemy agent was a ‘bandit’. As for the Germans, they were invariably ‘the Hun’.
Only once did Aldercroft come close to losing his stiffness, over gin and tonics at a pub called The Lyric. ‘Like cricket, by any chance?’ he asked.
Lucien shrugged. ‘Can’t say I’ve come across it very much.’
‘Ah yes. Sometimes I forget your antecedents. Well, I could explain the rules, but they’re knottier than the worst bloody cipher.’
‘I thought it was mostly a case of running up and down,’ said Lucien mischievously.
Aldercroft sighed. ‘That, Cortel, is like saying bridge is merely a card game. Still, it has given me an idea.’
The next morning they tackled a book cipher, using the 1937 Wisden’s Cricketers’ Almanac as a key. To his surprise, Lucien found that he enjoyed these mental games almost as much as he did the physical ones on the street.
But not as much as he enjoyed close-quarters combat.
Those lessons took place at a faded boxing gym on the Old Kent Road, opened at eight thirty in the morning expressly for him. His instructor was Foale: a short, gnarled man with what Lucien supposed was a Cockney accent.
‘Most of us don’t want to maim, much less kill,’ Foale explained during their first encounter. ‘But you ’ave to push through that. Your job is to win, at any cost. No playing fair, no gentlemen’s rules. Get the other bugger down and make sure ’e stays there.’
They covered chin jabs, hip throws and disarming techniques. The physical activity allowed him to turn down darker thoughts, to keep Chenard’s death in the recess where he’d placed it. He would deal with it when this was over.
Foale discovered that, thanks to his savate training, Lucien was an able student. Halfway through their third session, Lucien successfully neutralised him and slit his throat with a notional dagger.
‘You’re good at this, young ’un,’ said Foale, with a hint of admiration. ‘Some folks are all steam and no kettle, but not you. Got a bit of savage in you. The trick is to master it, keep it on a leash until you need it. When you set it free, God ’elp the other fella.’
One morning Aldercroft arranged to meet him downstairs, outside the office, and on the corner of Oxford Street hailed a taxi. He told the driver to take them to ‘the Palace of Westminster’, which Lucien knew better as the Houses of Parliament. After showing his identification at the sandbagged entrance, Aldercroft was greeted by an aide in the octagonal central lobby. Lucien marvelled at the soaring Gothic arches and richly tiled floor, the monarchs gazing at him from niches, and the vaulted roof above, shimmering with gilded mosaic. Echoes of footfalls and voices fluttered around them in the cool air, and at the same time he felt the heft and gravity of history. He was flooded with a sudden pride for his second country – for England.
He barely had time to register this emotion before they were being escorted through passageways and down steps, to a large arched door marked ‘Authorised personnel only’. Aldercroft clearly fell into that category, because the aide pushed the door open and they stepped into a long, wide, basement room with a vaulted roof. At its far end stood an array of black and white targets.
‘Welcome to the Palace of Westminster Rifle Club,’ said Aldercroft. ‘Known only to a chosen few. They say Guy Fawkes tried to blow up the building with a powder keg stashed around these parts. Ah, Sutherland.’
A sandy-haired man who’d evidently been waiting for them sidled up to shake Aldercroft’s hand. ‘These days the bangs come from rifles,’ he adjoined, his accent buttered with Scottish. ‘And occasionally from pistols, for those who’ve permission.’ He looked Lucien up and down. ‘So I’m to put you through your paces, am I? Any experience with firearms?’
Lucien shook his head. ‘None, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, we’ll teach you how to point and shoot. In a pinch it’s best to tuck your elbow into your hip and pull the trigger. No time to aim. But hopefully we’ll have you hitting some targets before the week’s out. Let’s find you a gun.’
On the evening of Wednesday October 2, he met Maddox for a walk down the Strand. It was cold, with sprightly gusts of wind hurtling through the canyon of buildings.
‘The main aim, of course,’ Maddox said, ‘is to find out if Dehix is still alive. Sure you know where to look?’
‘I know where to start. He lived in Montmartre when I was small. We’d see him there occasionally, in one café or another. Then he suddenly decided to retire to La Rochelle. “For safety and sanity,” he said. But I think he secretly missed Paris.’
‘Well, assuming it’s him, we need to know what he’s playing at. How did he get in touch with us in the first place? Why has he gone silent? And where’s he getting his information from?’
Maddox said it was necessary to ‘officialise the informants’. ‘Who are these people? Do some of them need paying? If he lets us help him we can create an efficient little espionage factory. Dédé knows the score: he did something similar for us during the last war.’
‘With my father.’
‘Correct.’ Maddox glanced sideways. ‘Afraid I can’t share any more details about that. Some things must remain secret. A bit like this little recce I’m sending you on. It’s something of a first for us; strictly off the books. When you come back, there’ll be no hero’s welcome.’
‘Understood. But can you at least tell me how I’m going to get into France?’
‘Yes, well, you’ll find out all about that this weekend. Parachute training, up near Manchester. A bit over-dramatic for my taste, but it’s the quickest way of getting you into the field. Talking of drama, we need to give you a code name. Any ideas?’
Lucien thought of the métro station closest to his home in Paris. It seemed strikingly appropriate.
‘Cadet,’ he said.
Maddox raised an eyebrow. ‘Unusually modest, but very well.’
As they reached the entrance of the Savoy, Lucien stopped, swallowed, and looked his superior in the eye. ‘Sir – where is Anna?’
‘Ah.’ Maddox looked mildly surprised. ‘Still in pursuit, are we? Well I’m afraid she’s staying at a little place in the country. We’ve got a new set-up: cryptography. Breaking codes, cracking ciphers, that sort of thing. With her talent for languages she’s a natural.’
He nodded towards the hotel’s awning, changing the subject. ‘Let’s drown your sorrows with a drink, shall we? You certainly deserve one – I hear your training’s going well. Aldercroft says you’re a touch bolshie, but Foale thinks the world of you. Bravo.’
Lucien resolved to enjoy the Savoy. He had a feeling it would be a while before he was able to relax again in such opulent surroundings.
As they settled at the bar, Maddox said, ‘You know, I’m rather envious of this jaunt of yours. If I were a few years younger, and all that. Plus you’re going to meet an old friend of mine. Extraordinary chap. But you’ll have to jump out of a plane first.’
Before he knew it, Lucien was sitting in the cold rumbling belly of a Whitley – the same cumbersome aircraft he’d trained in – being flown ‘into the field’. He was a guest of the Air Transport Auxiliary, a civilian outfit whose official task was to ferry aircraft from maintenance units, factories or other airfields to wherever they were needed. This spared RAF pilots for the vital business of combat. The Whitley had flown that evening out of White Waltham Airfield, the ATA’s base near Maidenhead. The pilot was Charlie Blenkinsopp, a silver-haired fellow who looked like he’d been flying since the previous war.
‘Too old for the RAF,’ he had admitted, over strong tea in the mess. ‘That’s how I ended up with this mob. They call us the Ancient and Tattered Aviators. We even have a couple of ladies.’ He shrugged. ‘Can’t say I relish this task, but since they wanted it done on the QT they shovelled it over to us.’ He stood. ‘Better visit the lav before we go. Not much chance later.’
Now cupped in Lucien’s hands was another mug of tea, this time laced with rum, poured from the dispatcher’s flask. There were no seats, so he was sitting on the floor, the parachute pack snugly between his back and the fuselage, their shuddering flight vibrating in his bones. They had waited for the full moon on the 16th, and occasionally he caught a glimpse of the silver medallion through the window of the cockpit, the door of which hung open. The cockpit was crowded: alongside Blenkinsopp there was the navigator Deakins and the wireless operator Ludlow. The dispatcher, Jeffers, sat opposite Lucien.
The first part of the journey had been uneventful, even a little dull were it not for the insistent blade of fear that gouged Lucien’s stomach. He thought he would somehow sense the moment when the plane crossed into French territory, but in the end the evidence was violent and material. The plane veered sharply off course as the German antiaircraft guns opened up, buffeting them like a gale. Lucien clenched his fists involuntarily. He could picture the spurts of fire, the crumpled blossoms of smoke below their fragile wings. ‘Just a bit of flak,’ Jeffers shouted over the din. ‘We’ll be through in a jiffy.’
Sure enough, after an interlude that lasted far too long, they were back into clear air. Time for tea. Lucien took another sip and tried to picture the landscape slipping below them, the little towns and villages that made up the half-mythical landscape of la France profonde: deep France. By now they must be flying over the zone libre – the unoccupied zone created when the Nazis cut the country roughly in half on June 22. To carry out his mission, Lucien would have to cross the demarcation line into the occupied zone.
‘’Fraid I’ll have to take that off you now,’ said Jeffers, nodding at the mug. Lucien handed it over. Then he scooted gracelessly on his rear over to the hatch. Jeffers hooked a strap from Lucien’s pack to the steel cable running across the ceiling. This was the static line that would automatically wrench Lucien’s chute from his pack, allowing it to open without his help. When the hatch dropped open, the inrush of engine noise and freezing air was terrifying.
He manoeuvred himself over the void, his legs already numbing in the icy cross-draught.
The green light went on. Jeffers raised his thumb and Lucien launched himself into the night.
His stomach whooshed into his throat as he dropped. A violent jerk when the chute stalled his fall and he spun like a tangled marionette until everything sorted itself out and he was drifting, cold hands gripped tight around the riser straps. These provided precious little guidance as he squinted at the blue-black fields below, his boots dangling above them. His rate of descent was horribly fast. Chill wind on his face, the fading drone of the Whitley.
He just remembered to keep his legs flexed before he slammed into the ground, corkscrewing to one side and bashing an ear against the earth, lights sparking beneath his closed eyelids. He opened them fast and scrabbled to his knees, fighting the urge to vomit. Smell of rich loam and the toasted woodsmoke of a doused fire. Footsteps thumped up behind him, a white face swam into his vision.
‘T’inquiète pas – laisse ça. Je vais t’aider.’ Leave that – I can help.
He stood up and the newcomer helped him shrug off his parachute pack. A young man with a floppy fringe of dark hair. Possibly still in his late teens, something racy and aristocratic about him. Another, older man appeared, brawnier and more of a farmhand type. He was carrying two shovels, one of which he tossed to his young companion.
Together the three men gathered up the parachute silk as best they could and dragged it to the side of the field. The other two began digging a shallow pit. Their breath steamed.
‘Let me help you,’ said Lucien.
The young man retorted, ‘Pas la peine. Nous sommes là pour ça.’ Nothing was any trouble, apparently. The politeness of spies.
They finished and tamped the damp earth with their boots. Finally they all shook hands.
‘Augustin,’ said the young man. ‘This is Guillaume.’
The older man nodded curtly.
‘Now we walk,’ Augustin told Lucien.
The sky was vast and salted with stars. Rutted fields stretched before them. This was Le Berry, the ancient heartland of France, not far from the city of Bourges, where the great fifteenth century merchant Jacques Coeur had established a web of influence that stretched as far as the Levant. No doubt Coeur had been something of a spymaster too.
The traversed a rickety échalier – a stile – over a broken-down dry stone wall. Lucien was breathing hard and sweating, steam flaring off him. He was wearing a heavy overcoat and a tweed jacke
t, although his boots were military issue. Ordinary civilian shoes were stuffed into the coat’s deep pockets.
‘Almost there,’ said Augustin.
The house stood at the top of a rise, visible long before they reached it. Except it was not a house – it was a miniature château, its brickwork ghostly in the moonlight, although he guessed it would be pale ochre in the sunshine. It was dominated to the left by a sturdy tower with an arched entrance, two slit windows, and a sharply coned roof in terracotta tile. The same tile covered the roof of the main part of the building. The façade featured shuttered windows on two levels and a straggle of dry autumn ivy. A single elm tree to the right of the house stretched its thinning branches to the sky like a warning hand.
Before they reached the house, Guillaume simply nodded and left them, striding off to wherever his quarters were. Lucien and Augustin covered the rest of the short distance in silence.
They entered the house not through the archway but via a short curving flight of steps that led up to a smaller door in the main building. Inside, coat-hooks and a boot rack, followed by a long wood-panelled hallway with a strip of burgundy carpeting along the stone floor. There was a pleasant compound odour of dog, candle wax and sautéed onion.
Augustin knocked softly on a pair of double doors with comma-shaped brass handles.
‘Entrez!’ called a voice from within.
To say that the room was pleasant was an understatement. From the crackling fire to the muted notes of Chopin from the gramophone, the two sofas in pale yellow silk damask that faced one another across a vast polished low table, and the golden retriever dozing on the Persian rug, everything spoke of gracious living.
The man who rose from a studded leather armchair at an angle to the sofas suited the room entirely. He had unusually long white hair combed straight back from a high tanned forehead. His eyes were brown and spirited under thick black brows. His chin bore a few days’ growth of white stubble. With his checked shirt he wore a brown tweed waistcoat and matching trousers, polished chestnut-coloured shoes. He was still holding the book he’d been reading: a heavy leather-bound volume.
