Blue Noon

by Robert Ryan

  ‘So who is she?’ Harry finally asked Wolkers, still feeling the heat of her mouth on him. ‘A fake?’

  ‘Not at all. The von Lutzes were pretty powerful people. Her husband was an industrialist. German Alsatian. Bankrolled Bugatti for a while, until he realised that was going nowhere. Rumour has it, though, he did put cash into some of the Ruhr industries … Krupp and the like.’

  ‘She didn’t mention him when I met her in Le Touquet.’

  ‘He was probably dead by then. Nineteen thirty … seven. Possibly early thirty-eight. He was sixty-odd … older than her anyway. But listen, Harry … he left her … hold on, in pounds, uh, five million. Give or take.’

  Harry raised his refreshed glass. ‘Take. Always take.’

  ‘I think perhaps you should stay in touch with Hellie.’

  Harry tapped his breast pocket, feeling his wallet underneath. ‘I still keep her address close to my heart, from the first time we met. It’s in Alsace somewhere …’

  ‘I know it,’ said Wolkers. ‘Leave Strasbourg, heading south. Take the road to Mulhouse. Can’t miss it. Second big fucking castle to the left.’

  They both laughed, Harry flinching as one of the old bullet wounds objected. They had healed cleanly, but he still had trouble raising his left arm higher than head height, not the best qualification for a burglar.

  ‘Where is the next job?’ asked Harry.

  ‘It’s a house, in the sixteenth. Off rue de Passy’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  Harry looked up to check Wolkers wasn’t joking. His partner tossed a bunch of keys with an address fob onto the table. Harry pocketed them, drained his glass and raised his good arm to signal the waitress. ‘In which case, I’d best have another.’

  By the time Harry burgled the twenty-third apartment the hauls were averaging under five thousand francs per job. It seemed that, as another hard winter bit the capital, people were pawning the last of their valuables, trying to get through another Christmas without starving or freezing to death.

  On number twenty-three the block concierge wouldn’t listen to reason, so Wolkers had him pulled in for questioning on the grounds that radio transmissions had been traced to his block. Nonsense, of course. He’d be released after a lonely, nervous night in the cells with a brusque apology. Meanwhile, his pass key would be put to good use.

  As usual Harry removed the Gestapo tape that stretched across the doorframe, opened the apartment, and slipped inside. He flicked the light switch but nothing happened. The power had been cut. He took a torch from his bag and moved through the rooms. In the bedroom he inspected the standard hiding places, discovering a pearl necklace in the underwear drawer, a couple of heavy gold cigarette cases behind the wardrobe. He moved one of the rugs, found a short, unnailed floorboard, lifted it and liberated the money and bonds nestling between the joists. He didn’t bother to count it, but it felt like a substantial amount. This was better than he had expected.

  He dropped the board back, replaced the rug, using the unfaded rectangle of floor varnish as a guideline, slung the hold-all over his shoulder and returned to the hallway, giving the place a quick once-over to make sure there were no tell-tale signs of his presence. As he opened the apartment door to leave, the harsh beam of white light played straight into his eyes and he raised a hand to shield them. He felt the barrel of the gun press against his forehead, forcing him back into the apartment. For a second he thought the scheme had been rumbled by the Gestapo, but then he heard the familiar voice behind the flashlight, speaking in English. ‘Hello, Harry.’

  Henry King.

  Twenty-eight

  London, April 1944

  COLONEL SIR CLAUDE DANSEY couldn’t remember when he had last seen so many people at one venue in London. They had flocked north to the Tottenham Hotspur football ground at White Hart Lane by every form of transport—thousands on bicycles, others by train, tube and bus. They streamed onto the terraces and stands and onto the pitch, where folding metal chairs had been laid out around the raised boxing ring in the centre. Most of them were carrying their own refreshments—Spam or paste sandwiches, flasks of tea, a pork pie or a pastie for the lucky few, and bottles of beer—because the stadium’s famous bagels were no longer on sale, replaced by soya-bean sausages, which had not attained their predecesssors’ popularity.

  Dansey took his seat three rows from the front, next to a Captain in the Signals, who shuffled sideways to give the larger man a little more room. The excitement in the air was palpable, with, thought Dansey, a strong whiff of Bread and Circuses: this gladiatorial contest was designed to keep the public, and the armed forces, sweet, distract them from all the speculation over the Second Front.

  The dinner-jacketed MC, incongruous in the spring sunshine, stepped into the ring and began to fire up the crowd, encouraging them to chant their favourite’s name.

  That this fight was taking place at all was remarkable. Len Harvey was a Pilot Officer, his opponent, the challenger Freddie Mills, a mere flight sergeant. Gentlemen and other ranks never, of course, met in the ring, but Mills’s manager had mounted a cunning campaign to swing public opinion behind changing such arcane, class-bound rules.

  A comedian did a turn while the stragglers continued to arrive and find their places. He offered a Lord Haw-Haw impersonation (‘Germany calling, Germany calling. Nine hundred Allied bombers shot down last night for the loss of one of our own fighters. London has collapsed into the Thames’) and routines cribbed from Tommy Trinder and the ITMA radio show.

  A pair of planes flew over, the new, fast American Mustangs in RAF colours, the sound of their thrumming Packard engines filling the stadium. One of them waggled its wings and a cheer went up that might even have reached the pilots. The great phalanx of blue serge in the RAF’s corner was beside itself with joy.

  All stood for the National Anthem and Dansey’s neighbour, the Signals Captain, said from the corner of his mouth: ‘Not my cup of tea, this sort of thing.’

  Dansey turned and looked at Henry King, surprised that he objected to the sport. ‘Tonic for the troops,’ he said.

  ‘Not this trooper.’ King offered a cigarette, which was refused. ‘I remember my father deciding a taste of the noble art would make a man of me. He was worried about my lack of sporting prowess. He’d been a Blue and all that.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He let three local lads knock seven bells out of me before he conceded the only thing I would get out of it was a broken nose and two cauliflower ears.’

  They sat as the anthem finished. King had been brought out of France by Lysander two days previously, and Dansey had arranged to meet him at the bout because he was concerned about security at Broadway Buildings. Nothing tangible, more a sense of unease he couldn’t pin down. He’d had all the surrounding buildings swept for covert photographers, doubled the entrance security, instigated random desk checks, to ensure nobody had anything they shouldn’t, but nothing had come to light. Still, the sense that everything wasn’t as watertight as it might be would not go away. Dansey didn’t want his efforts degenerating into the kind of fiascos Special Operations Executive were experiencing, so, for the time being, he was meeting key agents on neutral ground.

  ‘How are things across the Channel?’

  King risked a glance at Dansey and smiled. ‘Much as you’d expect.’

  His agent looked pale, the uniform loose on his diminished frame, but Dansey guessed that was true of most of the people over there. King was clever enough to know it didn’t do to look too healthy or prosperous in an occupied land. ‘You’ve done well,’ said Dansey. There was genuine admiration in his voice.

  ‘To last so long?’ There was a slight hint of weariness, a desire to see it all over, to get back to some kind of normality.

  ‘I suppose I do mean that,’ said Dansey, ‘given the numbers our friends in Baker Street keep losing.’

  King nodded. Unlike his superior, he felt no pleasure in the SOE’s mishaps. The
re but for the grace of God was his attitude. He’d been snuffling around in the murky business of espionage for a good six years before the war broke out. Which meant that he at least knew what he was doing. The people SOE sent over were like the replacement pilots in the First World War—if they lasted past the first forty-eight hours, they might be in with a chance. Many never made it beyond the drop zone or landing grounds. ‘Still, at least we’ll know who’s been nabbed and who hasn’t now,’ said King. ‘In Paris, at least.’ He took out a buff envelope and passed it across. ‘Everyone who is in the Foch cells. At least, up to a week ago.’

  Dansey let a beaming grin play over his face before he remembered himself and wiped it away. From the old Z days on, he had always thought King was the agent closest to himself. Not quite as hard nosed, or practical, perhaps, but a master manipulator. He could overlook his streak of sentimentality when he delivered goods like this. ‘How did you persuade him?’

  King laughed. Twisting and turning a man like Harry Cole to your own ends was far from difficult. ‘I told him I’d gone against my orders in Lille. That I had left an opportunity for him to escape the noose. That I was his friend.’

  ‘And he went for it?’

  King nodded. ‘It’s the truth. Well, the first part, anyway.’

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ said Dansey, with displeasure chilling his voice. ‘It is just as well your laxness paid off this time.’

  That was what he meant by sentimentality. Cole should be dead by now, but then there would be no ferret in Foch even as they spoke, telling King, and ultimately him, which British agents had been caught, which radios were unreliable, who had cracked under interrogation, all the snippets a keen pair of ears like Cole’s could pick up. King was lucky, but then, that was another attribute Dansey had always cultivated in his agents.

  There was a time when he had considered bringing King in from the field and grooming him in the labyrinthine ways of Broadway Buildings, a political battlefield that was every bit as tricky to negotiate as operating in Occupied France. Two or three incidents had stayed his hand, such as King’s hesitation in finishing off Cole in Lille.

  Dansey had decided, after much consideration, to let King be, and to transfer his attentions to polishing Philby. He wondered if King realised he was overdue a recall, that he had been in the field for far longer than was usual. Dansey rather thought he did, in which case, he was curious to see how long it would be before he raised the matter.

  A great cheer burst from the crowd as the two boxers emerged from the tunnel, arms pumping the air.

  King said, ‘They are mostly Baker Street’s men and women. In Foch.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘So you will tell them.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Dansey, with a wave of his hand. ‘When the time is right.’

  ‘Are you going to watch the bloody fight?’ complained someone from behind. Dansey ignored him. The two men were in the ring and the MC was making the introductions. Harvey was 34, but looked in good shape. Although he hadn’t fought for three years, the famous legs that always kept him dancing until the final bell were knotted and muscular. Mills was twelve years younger, leaner with a wicked scowl, but, the word was, lacking in finesse. It was gentleman-versus-player.

  King said quietly, but firmly, ‘You must tell them.’

  Dansey put a hand on King’s shoulder. ‘That’s for me to decide, Henry.’ Dansey knew that SOE was a diminishing threat to his empire. He had even extracted a promise from Churchill that the rival would be wound up at the cessation of hostilities anyway. So perhaps he would share some of the nuggets. He just had to make sure he got something in return. ‘Please stick to your part of the job,’ he warned King.

  The bell for the first round sounded, and Dansey leant forward, listening to the thwack as leather gloves landed blows to head and body, the sweat already flicking off the fighters’ faces. The three minutes went in a flash, and Dansey said: ‘Close. Very close.’

  King nodded. ‘Yes, we are rather, aren’t we?’

  ‘Harvey’ll have him though. Mills is just a rough-houser. Breeding will always tell.’

  Seconds out, round two, and the crowd bayed as Harvey moved aggressively forward, in a manner not normally associated with his style. The Flying Officer usually played an elegant long game, concentrating on the psychological and physical attrition of an opponent, avoiding a messy scrap, but here he was surging ahead, firing three rapid punches that unbalanced Mills.

  The Flight Sergeant staggered back, but quickly regained his footing and fetched a powerful left hook that lifted Harvey from the floor. The officer crumpled, and a raucous chanting of ‘F-reddie. F-reddie’ began from the other ranks.

  On eight, Harvey was up, but swaying, and Mills was in again, combination punches flying, the famous Harvey pins looking decidedly wobbly.

  A right hook snapped Harvey’s head round and he staggered back towards the ropes, all balance gone. The momentum rolled him clean over and, to shocked gasps, he was out of the ring, landing heavily on the tarpaulin covering the grass. Every photographer in the ground rushed to get the frame that would fill the next day’s newspapers.

  Mills’s hand was raised by the referee to a roar of delight from the ranks. A solitary red rose came arcing into the arena and Mills bent, clumsily picked it up with his glove and put it in his mouth.

  The noise was deafening now, everyone was on their feet, some crying fix, many of the officers furious that their man should have lost, most of the other ranks jubilant. King looked at his watch and said wearily: ‘Well, at least it only lasted four minutes. Looks like breeding isn’t everything after all, sir. Ah well, back to the coal face.’

  ‘The Harry Cole face,’ said Dansey and looked pleased with himself.

  King smiled, shook his head, and pushed his way through the over-excited masses.

  Twenty-nine

  Southern France, June 1944

  THE EARLY MORNING COLD had penetrated her jacket, two jumpers, a slip and her thin, over-washed underwear. She was shivering now, even though the first rays of the sun had pierced the tree canopy and were warming the patch of ferns where she lay on a coarse blanket, her eyes gritty from lack of sleep.

  She rolled over and raised a hand to Patrick, her flank man, who signalled back. He crawled over on his elbows, rattling the undergrowth as he went, until he reached her and offered the flask of armagnac. Odile took a small swig. ‘You OK?’

  He nodded. ‘You sure they are coming?’

  Odile nodded. She knew that Tony Brooks, the young SOE man in charge of sabotage in the Lot and Correze regions, had made rail travel north all but impossible since the troops landed at Normandy. Now, the road at the bottom of this pretty valley between Toulouse and Limoges, lined by trees and creepers and wildflowers, was the only route the Germans could come. Which meant they would have to get through the four barriers of logs and boulders blocking it all the way to the little village of Cauliac, two kilometres away.

  Hidden in the woods were her thirty men, mostly from the Armée Secrete, all Gaullists, all armed by her parachute drops. Normally, of course, they wouldn’t be ‘her’ men at all, but whoever controlled the drops also commanded respect and loyalty, at least as long as the weapons kept coming.

  She hoped she could remember all of Bob Maloubier’s advice. He was a veteran of SOE action in Brittany and had been evacuated out to England with the Bugatti driver Robert Benoist in late 1943 and, like her, had insisted on coming back. He was operating in the Limoges area, to the north of her, but with the same objective, to harass reinforcements heading to the beachheads.

  They had met two weeks ago at a training camp in a forest near Brive, where Bob had given her a crash course in hit-and-run tactics. Triffe had been there, too, her saviour from Lyon, now fired up with the chance to fight the Germans in the open, rather than as a spy. They all felt the same, happy that, as Maloubier put it, the gloves were finally off. Triffe was busy organising behind-the-lines drop zones
for three-man training teams to be parachuted in, each comprising an Englishman, an American and a Frenchman, a combination that sounded like a bad music hall joke.

  Patrick broke into her thoughts by letting a hand rest on her shoulder for perhaps a moment too long. Little Puppy some of the others called him, and it was true, he did flash those big saucer eyes at her once too often. Some other place or time, she would have taken this boy—he was not yet sixteen—and probably had some fun. For the moment, however, there was still an unexorcised ghost haunting her, a spectre who had drained dry her reserves of love and, more importantly, trust.

  ‘Are you sure they’re coming?’ he repeated anxiously.

  The noise answered for her, sending the birds racing for the sky, a deep-throated rumble, followed by higher, nastier barks, as tanks, lorries, kübelwagens, motorcycles, self-propelled guns and tow trucks all started on some unheard signal. Yes, the 2nd SS Panzer Division was on the move.

  Paris was jittery. Salvation was at hand, the Free French, Americans and British were on their way from Normandy, but the hope of that salvation brought concerns at how, in the death throes of their occupation, the Germans were going to lash out. There was one name on everyone’s lips: Stalingrad. Would the City of Light also become a pile of pounded rubble?

  Harry sipped at his coffee on the terrace at the Dome and watched the early morning faces passing by, looking for a spring in a step, a sly smile, an act of defiance, but there was none. The population was wisely holding in any jubilation it felt. The Germans were not in the mood for any hint of rebellion. The waiter told him that some kids wearing a combination of red, white and blue clothing—a not uncommon act of subversion—had been whisked away by gendarmes this morning. Harry knew it was almost time to move on.

  Wolkers slid in front of him and signalled for a drink. He looked tired, and hadn’t shaved, but then he did have an increasing fondness for a certain brothel on the Left Bank. He might well have come straight from there.