She nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Mind you – with all respect to him – respect and admiration – I’m not counting chickens. For instance, they might have left me loose so they could pick up any new agents coming in. You, for a start.’
‘Thought for the day, that.’
‘I wouldn’t put it past Clausen. It’s partly why I suggested we shouldn’t be seen together if we can help it. And to be honest, why I’d be very glad to have the break you’re arranging for me… Although it has been some while now. If I’d been under surveillance I think I’d know it by this time.’ A pause, then. Looking at her. ‘Think – couldn’t be sure… You’re very attractive, Angel. I guessed you might be, from your voice.’
‘As you mentioned, over the telephone. Misleading for any crossed lines, but let’s keep it for that – please?’
A shrug. ‘I was only paying a compliment – an honest one—’
‘Your friend Pigot is a sympathizer, is he?’
‘More than that. They killed his girlfriend. Looking for her brother. He was in a group that blew up the railway near Vernon, the Paris line, someone identified him and – well, he was on the run. So they took her.’
‘She didn’t—’
‘He’s still alive and kicking, so – no, she didn’t.’ Then – with his eyes on hers – as if reading her mind – ‘It can be done, you see.’
‘Yes.’ She looked down at her hands on the table, thinking that by exceptional people it could be done. Recalling Ben Quarry’s phrase, ‘the bravest of the brave’. Very exceptional people, she told herself. And until it happened—
Not until. Unless.
She looked up. ‘What else is there?’
‘Well – you’ll get in touch next week, you said. Whether or not César’s joined us by then?’
‘Probably on Tuesday.’
The doubt was whether she’d be able to arrange for the reception of both drops through that one individual in Lyons-la-Forêt. If she found she could, she might get back to Rouen on Sunday. Otherwise there’d be another day pedalling, another meeting, then a whole day cycling back. Monday – back here Monday night. Could be a tight squeeze: arrangements for the drops did have to be concluded – that was the priority – but it was almost as important that she should be here on Tuesday morning to keep her appointment with Jacqueline and then – perhaps, and please God – the rendezvous with César.
‘Will you be at your bistro on Tuesday?’
‘I’ll be – around. I don’t just sit there – for anyone to walk in on me, God’s sake. I wasn’t there when you called. They call me – elsewhere – I either call back or I don’t.’
‘It’ll be early afternoon, most likely. If you’re not there I won’t leave a message, I’ll try later – or on Wednesday.’
‘I’ll be there. One point, though – about this trip you’re making. You know, I’ve been around here quite a while, I visit all the farms, they all know me. Well – we don’t want to be treading on each other’s heels – right? In the longer term, we must coordinate our efforts, d’you agree?’
She nodded. ‘But with luck it may not be long before you’re flown out.’
He was offering her a cigarette, but she’d only just stubbed one out. He muttered, lighting his own, ‘I’d like to be out today. Believe me – soonest. But I’d also like to see some drops set up before that – to know it’s happening. As soon as possible – if it’s possible, now we have you as pianist. They had good reason to shut me off the air, but the shutdown’s not good for any of us – the boys out there need the stuff, they’d be using it if they had it. As well as stocking up for when the great day comes. They’ll begin to wonder what use we are to them, why they should risk their necks passing the airmen through to us, for instance – when it’s so very dangerous not only for them but for their wives and children.’
‘Yes. I know.’
‘Get a drop set up soon, d’you think?’
‘I don’t see why not. You’ve had requests, have you?’
‘Half a dozen.’
‘In which areas?’
Quick smile – through a screen of smoke… ‘I’m supposed to answer your questions?’ Drawing another lungful… Then: ‘Fix up my trip to England, Angel, I’ll park everything in your lap.’
She couldn’t push it. She’d have liked to have known, because of the drops that were already organized. When she met the man in Lyons-la-Forêt she wouldn’t know about any requests he might already have passed to Romeo, for instance. They’d know each other, you could bet on it: in fact his reticence now might be aimed at embarrassing her, to pay her back for keeping him in the dark. She couldn’t argue the point, either, without telling him where she was going and what for.
He was telling her – she’d been ready to leave, but he’d started in on it – about the present state of affairs in and around Rouen, including the fact – regrettable but not surprising – that the majority of the population were still primarily interested in getting by, which meant taking damn good care not to get involved in ‘subversive’ activities.
‘Mind you, having their men shipped out to the work-camps hasn’t pleased them. Serve ’em right – they’ve seen the Jews shipped out – men, women, children – and not lifted a finger. Well – helped with it, ordinary gendarmes did most of the rounding up. And denunciations from the public… But there is a suspicion here and there that the Germans may not win. Invasion in Sicily, defeat of the Afrika Korps… The Boches taking over what was the Zone Libre hasn’t made them any more popular, either. Stalingrad – that’s a big thing. People aren’t certain any more – and they’ll get a lot less so, more and more anti-Nazi – potentially so, at least – as Allied successes mount. The weathervane factor, eh? Pretty soon they’ll wake up to the fact the Boches can’t win… How long before the invasion here, any idea?’
‘None at all.’ She added, ‘Thank heavens.’
He nodded, knowing what she meant. With that kind of information in your skull you’d be a walking bomb. Romeo added, ‘What they’re harping on now – the Boches, in all their news-sheets and every time one of ’em opens his mouth, is this “secret weapon” story. To counter so-called “defeatist” attitudes, they’re claiming that once they get these magical weapons into action – any time now – England’ll be wiped off the map. And so forth.’ He changed the subject. ‘Didn’t bring any money, I suppose?’
She thought fast again… ‘César’ll have some.’
‘After you give it to him, you mean?’
‘What?’
‘Not that it matters, who brings it. I assumed you would have because I know you’ve come from London, and if the same applied to César you’d have arrived together.’
‘I don’t know where he’s coming from.’
‘If he doesn’t show – which God forbid – well, they’d send you someone else, I suppose. And if I’m getting out I won’t need any, in any case. Tell you the absolute truth, Angel, getting out is what’s mostly on my mind, right now.’
There was one thing still on hers, in terms of immediate practicalities: where she could move to, leaving the Bonhommes. The best thing would be to bid them farewell in the morning, having some other place lined up in which to hole up when she got back; and the immediate question was whether to risk asking Romeo for suggestions.
She’d be putting herself very much in his hands, if she did. She could imagine how aghast Buckmaster would be, at her even considering it. Or anyone else, for that matter. Marilyn: she could visualize the raised eyebrows, the expression of incredulity…
Fact was, her instincts told her he was straight. And since César, on whom she’d been relying, was conspicuous by his absence and might well remain so, where the hell else would she get advice?
It was a bit more than instinct, anyway. He looked about as trustworthy as an old crocodile, but there were things he’d said and others he hadn’t: and the way he devoured cigarettes, with that slight shake in his fingers – his n
erves were shot, he genuinely did intend to accept Baker Street’s invitation.
She took a breath. ‘One thing. I need to move from the place I’m staying at. I was sent there, didn’t just take pot luck, but they have a daughter who’s pro-German and makes a habit of dropping in, apparently. Can you suggest where I might go?’
If he wanted to shop her he’d have plenty of opportunity, she told herself, even without knowing where she lived.
His dark eyes were thoughtful.
‘Mind if Pigot knows where you’ll be?’
‘Why should I – if he’s one of us?’
‘Anyone who knows anything about you adds some risk. I’m surprised you’re asking me – in present circumstances.’
‘You could give me away without knowing any more than you do already. Knowing where I’ll be living – could make it easier, I suppose, but that’s all.’
‘You’ve given it some thought, then.’
‘Of course.’
‘Well. I’m encouraged.’ He got up out of Pigot’s chair, called into the gloom: ‘Marc – spare a minute?’ He stayed there until he saw him coming, then turned back. ‘He’s consumptive, by the way. That’s how he’s avoided the labour camps. Also they accept he’s useful here – like me… Oh, Marc, sorry to bother you—’
‘Who’s bothered?’
‘Your friend Ursule – might she have a room free, d’you think, for Madame Lefèvre – a few days, perhaps longer?’
‘I’ll call her.’
‘Money no object, of course.’ He winked at Rosie. ‘But don’t tell her that.’ Pigot was dialling. Romeo murmured, ‘It’s on the Rive Gauche. She lets rooms, mostly to girls who – well, who ply a certain trade. It’s not a brothel, mind you—’
‘How reassuring…’
‘She inherited the house, decided to let rooms, it was how it turned out, that’s all. She’s taken people in for us before this, quite often – transients, you know… She’s a widow, husband killed in ’40, son about seventeen in the S.T.O. – know what that is?’
She nodded, listening to Pigot… ‘Ursule – it’s Marc here. I wondered – a young lady, friend of a friend, she’s looking for some place to live – I’m not sure for how long, but could be you’d have room for her?’
She wondered again if she wasn’t insane. It was too late anyway for second thoughts. Hearing Pigot murmur into the phone, ‘I think right away – but hang on—’
‘Tomorrow morning. I’d leave some luggage. Take the room from then – if there is one.’
It sounded as if there might be.
Take the money to the country with her? Or leave it in the locked bag at this house of ill-fame, whatever…
Or here?
Here, in this garage. In the new grip with the padlock on it, which she could bring here on her way out of town in the morning. Leave the money in that, and borrow something from Madame Bonhomme for her essentials over the weekend. A rucksack would be best. Easier to manage, especially as she’d have the sample-case as well.
She interrupted: ‘Marc – Monsieur Pigot—’
‘Hey, wait, would you?’ Scowling round at her – back to his old self for a moment – with a hand covering the mouthpiece: ‘What?’
‘I’d like to take the room from Monday. Not tomorrow. If I could leave some of my stuff here until then?’
He turned back. ‘Chérie…’
Meeting Romeo’s unsmiling gaze: disturbingly aware – as he was too, she could read it in that dead-serious look – of how irretrievably she was putting herself in his hands. He’d know where she’d be living: knew also that she’d be coming here early tomorrow and that she’d have the radio with her, and probably – as he’d already guessed – some fairly large sum of money.
She thought, In for a penny…
Pigot hung up. ‘She’ll expect you Monday.’
9
Vidor told Ben Quarry on the Friday evening, in a farmhouse loft half a mile from the village of Broennou, ‘I cannot pretend you are – how to say it – what we are needing, at this moment. But,’ – he shrugged – ‘we will do our best, of course. One difficulty is we’re shorthanded, in the present situation.’
‘Could we lend a hand?’
Vidor – scrawny, with thick dark hair but blue-eyed – he was a vet, the only one in this region – stared at him, thinking about it. Nodding, then. ‘Perhaps. Yes. I think…’ The ‘present situation’ being that the réseau was under threat – as he’d been explaining, and as Léon had mentioned briefly in the small hours of the morning on Guenioc island but hadn’t wanted to elucidate – through the arrest in Paris of one of its members, a Frenchman who’d left on the train from Landerneau this last Monday, along with a girl agent who’d landed from M.G.B. 600.
Rosie.
Vidor had known her as ‘Angel’, but it could only have been her. He felt the shock like a kick in the balls. Blinking at the Frenchman for a moment before he found his voice. ‘She wasn’t arrested – was she?’
‘No. Fortunately.’
‘Would you know, if she had been?’
‘The report of his arrest originated with her. She was free then, for sure.’
He let his breath out slowly, thinking God Almighty. Imagining the sheer horror of it… Vidor was saying, about the one who’d been arrested, ‘A tough guy, fortunately.’ Tapping his head: ‘Tough here. But it’s not the only problem we have, not at all… Anyway – there’s work to finish quickly, and I appreciate your offer, Lieutenant.’ Glancing at the two sailors: ‘These two speak no French, eh?’
‘Not a word.’ They were shaking their heads, Bright asking Farr ‘Parly voo, monsewer?’ Ben added, ‘Let me tell you, we’re a darn sight more grateful for what you’re doing for us. Glad to help any way we can.’ He added, in his own Australian-accented, fractured French – Vidor had been using French-accented English, slightly less fractured – ‘After we’ve had some rest, if that’s OK. Be more use to you then.’ Then on a double-take – reminded by the tension in the Frenchman’s weathered face – ‘That arrest’s not all, you say?’
‘No. Unfortunately… But I think only you, Lieutenant. The language problem, you see. Perhaps very difficult – dangerous, could be… Yes. It’s a pity, but – you alone.’ He nodded. ‘You sleep now, someone will come for you in the morning. Before sunrise, perhaps I myself.’
‘Whatever you say.’ He saw the point, more or less. If they were stopped and questioned they’d stand no chance at all of passing themselves off as locals: whereas he just might – to a German’s ears, anyway.
‘What’s the rest of it, Vidor?’
‘The rest… Well – the number of Boches we have here suddenly. Too many, still more arrived today. We had something of the sort around Brest just recently, and I hope it’s the same thing spreading this way, not Guillaume. But—’
‘Guillaume?’
He wasn’t thinking straight yet. They’d had this colossal meal – served shyly by the farmer’s young, very pretty redheaded daughter, name of Solange – eaten it like famished goats, really did need to get their heads down for a few hours. Then – whatever… Vidor was at the door – or hatchway, more like – glancing back at them: ‘It will be all right, don’t worry. Get some sleep. A few hours, I’ll be back.’
* * *
He’d heard the gunboat leaving. Probably the worst moment of his life. Well, it was: still was, in memory. The stuff nightmares were made of.
It had been Farr – stroke oar – who’d heard it first, then there’d been thinner, wind-whipped shouts from seasick men in the dinghy’s bow. They’d all been listening then, even Ben with his damaged hearing trying to sort out the bearing of that deep growl of engines as M.G.B. 600 moved out from her anchorage. She’d have to be on a northwesterly course, to clear the island: but where… Competing noise from wind and sea was confusing: especially when you were half-deaf anyway. At one point he’d thought she might be coming straight towards them, sparking simultaneously the fear
of being run down and the hope of being spotted and picked up: but the sound had faded quickly, leaving him with an appalling sense of failure, personal and professional ignominy.
All wind and sea noise, total darkness still, the dinghy throwing itself about: forcing himself to decide, through the shame of it, what the hell came next.
Well – bloody obvious. Get back to the island. If you could find that…
The wind would have to be coming in over the port side – port bow, if such accuracy were possible. But they could have been forty yards out, or four hundred. Even steering that sort of course relative to the wind direction you could miss the island altogether, if during all this floundering around you’d been carried further down-wind than you’d reckoned.
He didn’t think they could have been. He thought he wouldn’t have heard that engine-noise so clearly if it hadn’t been damn close. She’d have been on outers only, at low revs and silenced, and there was a lot of surrounding noise.
So hold this course now. Guessing at Hughes’ state of mind: having already hung on longer than he should have, and with dawn not far off, the absolute necessity of having his ship well clear before first light. No option, he’d had to start out: but even so, leaving three of his own men and four passengers, he wouldn’t be feeling exactly jolly.
Bright had yelled something, and Farr had half-turned his head, shouting an answer. All of their weight and strength combined in driving the boat up out of a trough, more black water slopping over here in the stern and the white stuff stinging, ice-cold: hitting the crest then and toppling, beginning the long fall bow-down but for a few seconds in the full force of the wind – where it took all his strength on the sweep-oar to keep her from broaching-to… Farr had shouted ‘Surf – right ahead!’
Into the Fire Page 15
