César now on station. Delay was due to his Lyon contact Fabien being arrested shortly after their meeting and before Pension d’Alsace raided, César then escorted US aircrew from the pension to escape réseau Switchback at Perpignan. Romeo refuses contact with César, will deal only with Angel, citing personal security as his reason and awaiting instructions for transfer to UK. Would appreciate despatch of replacement courier soonest. Requests for drops in Neufchatel-Amiens region currently being collected and will follow. Meanwhile intend listening watch Sundays Wednesdays Fridays midnight to 0200 GMT starting Sunday 25th. Message ends. Out.
It was about as long a transmission as she’d have wanted to make: but not all that over-long, and she had no real fears of her new code being crackable at this early stage. They’d had months in which to work on Romeo’s. She switched to ‘Receive’, waited with a message-pad resting on the set and a pencil poised, and within a minute Baker Street’s signal came stuttering in; five minutes later she was in the van decoding it while Romeo coiled the aerial wire for her. He’d disconnected the set from the gazo’s battery first, and slammed the bonnet shut.
‘Well?’
Half in, half out, surveying the road uphill and down, and as much as was visible of the surrounding countryside. There wasn’t another person or vehicle in sight, but if they had been surprised now they’d have been necking. Earlier, it would have been a breakdown. She glanced up, told him, ‘Thirtieth. Friday – nine day’s time. 0130 G.M.T. Hold on…’
He slid his thick body in, pulled the door shut. Muttering ‘Nine days. Nine bloody days…’ Then: ‘Where? Where, Angel?’
‘Give me a minute, God’s sake!’
‘Sorry.’ Drumming his fingers on the wheel. ‘Sorry…’
Finishing, she handed him the pad. ‘Can’t be far from where we are now.’
He was to be picked up by Lysander in a field – its grid coordinates were supplied – in a high, wooded area between Hêtre le Poilu and Carrefour du Chatelet.
‘You’re right. Not far from Bellencombre. Oh, I know it, it’s a field we’ve used before – no distance from here… Long trip out of Rouen, mind. One-thirty G.M.T., that’s—’
‘Midnight, French time.’
‘Angel – we’ll stop next at Bellencombre.’ He tapped the map. ‘There’s a gazo depot, I can change the cylinder.’
‘Want to check on the Lysander field, do you?’
He nodded. ‘As well to be sure they haven’t littered it with rocks, since the last use. I heard of that happening once. Imagine it… But anyway it’s two birds with one stone, we have a man to see at Ardouval, eh? After that cross-country to Mesnières – see it, Mesnières-en-Bray? And from there a backtrack to Neufchatel. All right?’
She was following it on the map – his own map, a legal one, pencil notes of his customers on the margins.
‘Yes. All right.’
‘I’ll get rid of this. Hang on. Boy, oh boy…’
He was excited – elated – his large hands clumsy as he ripped off that sheet and a few blank but indented ones under it. Climbing out, he dropped the ball of paper at the roadside, crouched to put a match to it – the third match did it – then crushed the ashes under his heel. Another visual check in both directions before he eased himself back in behind the wheel – slamming his hands down on it and chuckling suddenly, turning to grin at her… Like a big, grey-headed schoolboy, she thought – a schoolboy in the state of mind which she remembered had been known to her and her friends as ‘term-enditis’. She smiled back at him, thinking what a very nice man he was: he leant to her, kissed her cheek. ‘Come see me off, will you, Friday week?’
13
Saturday, late afternoon: they were coming into Rouen from the northwest, having detoured that way in order to send off the last of the requests for weapons drops from the countryside near Yerville. It had been Rosie’s fifth transmission since that one on Wednesday: six in all, and by this time at least five of them would be in Baker Street and decoded.
Romeo’s murmur, on her left: ‘We haven’t done at all badly, Angel, you know?’
Glancing her way… She’d been fiddling with her bra on that side, where she had the suicide pill. When she’d sewn the pocket into this one she’d left an edge which had now become scratchy. The other bra, which she’d washed on Tuesday night and left in her room at Ursule’s to dry, was the second she’d done and she’d managed it more neatly.
She’d agreed – massaging that shoulder instead – ‘A lot better than I’d have done on my own, I’ll tell you that.’ They’d given the bastards plenty to chew on. The Reichssicherheitshauptampt’s long-range radio direction finders would have picked up all her signals, the first from that place just north of Rouen, then four from the Neufchatel-Amiens area and today’s from west of the Rouen-Dieppe road. Six transmissions in four days. She could imagine the behind-scenes activity: cypher experts burning the midnight oil, detector vans deploying around Amiens – ready to lock on to further transmissions which wouldn’t be forthcoming – and wires humming between the various Security departments. A new pianist at work, a hitherto unknown hand and code prefixes: obviously a new réseau in being, in place of the one they’d smashed. If they’d been as thorough as they were cracked up to be, she thought, they’d have had checkpoints on all these routes by now, stopping every vehicle and searching it for the radio. After all, the previous réseau had been based in Rouen – why not assume the new one would be, and that the pianist might be on his or her way home?
In these four days they’d been stopped only once: the other side of Neufchatel, on the second day. Milice had checked their papers and asked the usual questions, only glancing casually into the back of the van and then releasing them. Romeo had muttered, as he’d put the gazo into gear and got it moving, ‘Eight days to go…’
He’d warned her, this morning, that the heat would be on now.
‘You could say you’re in a minefield – which is a basic, permanent situation, you could always tread on one any minute –’ a gesture, hands momentarily off the wheel, simulating an explosion – ‘but now there’ll be snipers too.’ A shrug. ‘If there weren’t before – who knows? I mean they’ll be out looking for you – for this pianist, they have a target now.’ Then, after about a minute, ‘I’ll feel bad ducking out on you, Angel.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘I’d recommend my system to you, incidentally. Staying clear, I mean. Other than César, of course. Like I worked with Max? Worked for me – eh?’
‘They’ll probably send a new courier in the Lysander that comes for you, though. He and I’ll have to know each other.’
‘Not to know where you live or what you’re doing. Not to hobnob with you either. Persuade César. Everything through him – pianist otherwise on her own. Other way of putting it, you’re his pianist.’ Glancing round at her, scowling… ‘Stay alive, Angel!’
Last night, Friday, had been spent in a forester’s house near Ardouval. Their second visit – it had been their first port of call on Wednesday and while they’d gone on eastward the forester had arranged for Resistance colleagues from Londinières, Evermeu and le Mesnil-Réaume to bring their wives to this social gathering. Only an hour or two before the party got together Rosie had listened to the BBC’s Overseas News broadcast and heard the pre-arranged message Ma belle-soeur est devenue malade. The timing had been perfect: she’d been able to tell the men around the table, ‘You may be interested to know there’ll be two drops tomorrow night, and a bombing attack in the same area as a diversion. Believe me, we are back in business.’
Romeo had been looking at her with an eyebrow cocked. This had been the first he’d heard of the Lyons-la-Forêt operations. Rosie had murmured, ‘Tell you later.’ Then looked from him to a réseau leader who’d leant towards her across the table to make some point.
‘Yes, monsieur?’
‘Certain other groups have been given priority over us, have they?’
She’d k
nown this one was a communist; the forester had mentioned it. And his comment, she thought, was typical. Cooperation as long as his own group got what it wanted, but not a hint of friendship or gratitude, only suspicion that maybe they could be getting more. She’d told him – all of them – ‘These are drops that were asked for some time ago and arranged before I left London, obviating the need for radio exchanges which might be intercepted. But there’s no question of priorities – it’s first come, first served. This is a new start, and the requests you’re making now will be among the first that I’m transmitting… However – I have another subject to raise now. The Nazis’ so-called “Secret Weapons”. Have any of you any knowledge of construction work, or survey teams at work – German-led, possibly organized from Amiens – in connection with rocket-sites, in your districts?’
‘What form of constructions might they be?’
A big man: a farmer, name of Duclos. She told him, ‘Concrete, some sort of ramp pointing towards the Channel. There’d also be huts, accommodation for technicians and military guards, storage and so on. They’ll need to connect power-lines and telephones – which could be easy sabotage targets, incidentally. Probably a barbed-wire perimeter.’
‘How many such sites?’
‘We don’t know. Could be hundreds. But for our purposes, they’ve got to be located so our bombers can hit them, knock them out or at least delay construction. Otherwise the danger is of heavy and continuous bombardment of the south of England, even to the extent of making it impossible to mount the invasion we’re all waiting and praying for. That’s unthinkable, you’ll agree.’
They’d agreed, all right.
She’d had to let Romeo in on this line of enquiry. He was with her all the time, had to be, and in any case she felt sure of him now. She’d told him about it – this end of it, the field research, nothing about Jacqui or her colonel – right at the start of the trip, on Wednesday night in the house of a woman schoolteacher in Neufchatel. Romeo had dossed in the living room, and Rosie had shared the teacher’s bed. And there’d been several meetings similar to last night’s, at which she’d collected requests for weapons drops and asked for reports of rocket-site developments. The research was to cover a wide area – from Amiens, the word was being passed to réseaux as far away as Arras and Lille.
He’d asked her this morning, soon after they’d got on the road, ‘Two drops tonight, you mentioned?’
‘Should be.’ She’d touched the wooden dashboard for luck. ‘Catch that same broadcast later, I hope.’
‘In the area of Lyons-la-Forêt – both of them?’
She’d stared at him: and he’d chuckled… ‘Where you went last weekend, wasn’t it?’
‘What makes you think so?’
‘I was called upon to give you a reference. Friend of mine telephoned, asked whether I’d ever heard of an angel who rode a bicycle. He thought a real one might have used its damn wings, he said.’
‘Play your cards close to your chest, don’t you?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘Georges Lebrun, I suppose.’
‘That’s the fellow. More to him than you’d guess at first sight. Dry old stick, eh?’
* * *
These had been well-spent days. She’d even managed to visit shops in Neufchatel and Amiens, offering the Cazalet range of perfumes. In one, an effeminate Belgian had sniffed at each sample, gone into raptures over some of them and promised to send an order direct to Paris. He had a friend who was a friend of Pierre Cazalet, he’d mentioned, and she’d thought, Small world…
She’d been doing some hard thinking about Jacqui. Another item from the advice she’d been given by the people in St James’ had been that there were often situations in which you had either to take a risk head-on, or bog down and get nowhere. ‘A tide to be taken at the flood’ had been the relevant quotation, and it seemed to her entirely apposite to the present situation, vis-à-vis Jacqueline Clermont: the basics of it being (1) that she couldn’t know how much time she’d have – realistically, this did have to be faced – and (2) that as things stood at the moment she did seem to have an exceptionally good hand to play.
So – forget those earlier qualms, push it along now.
See César on Sunday, she thought. It would be too late tonight. Call him this evening and arrange to meet tomorrow, and see Jacqui on Monday if possible. She’d be in Amiens until then. Call in at the shop: an excuse for dropping in might be to tell her that her willingness to stock his scents and toilet waters had been passed to Pierre Cazalet, who was delighted and would be writing to her shortly. Actually Rosie hadn’t done anything about it yet, but she’d give him a call early in the week. Tell him about the Belgian, too – make the old dear’s day for him.
* * *
They’d done a lot of talking – on the road, mainly, but also practically all night on the one occasion they’d shared a room – Thursday, on a farm near Foncarmont, where as well as conducting S.O.E. business he’d mended a tractor. He’d slept on the floor on a mattress of folded blankets, and she’d had the couch, which had probably been less comfortable. In the course of hours of sporadic chat, she’d asked him what had got him into S.O.E.
‘The same as everyone else. I was recruited. Fluent French and sterling qualities – isn’t that it?’
‘But you were over here in the first place – I mean, to be recruited.’
‘Sure. Came by boat. Big one, very tall funnels, French boat. Oh, the Pasteur.’
‘To England?’
‘France, then England after the debacle… D’you know Mauritius?’
‘Hardly. Heard about it.’
‘It’s the loveliest place on earth. Come visit us one day, eh? Meet the wife and children.’
‘I thought you told me she’d run out on you.’
‘New wife. I told you the old one skipped out, that’s true. Incredible, don’t you agree?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Yeah, well… She went with this French guy, to Réunion. Kids are in Mauritius though, with my sister.’
‘And this new wife—’
‘Some lucky girl got a big surprise coming, uh?’
‘Oh.’ She’d caught on. ‘My, hasn’t she!’
‘It’s a pipe dream. You have to live on something, eh? What does your man do, Angel -your new one?’
‘He’s in the Navy. Thought I’d told you… But he’s also an artist.’
‘Painter? Good one?’
‘I don’t know. Haven’t seen any of his pictures yet. Did I tell you he’s Australian?’
‘Don’t think you did. But look here – Mauritius is on the way to Australia – if you come round the Cape, that is. You and he might stop off sometime, eh?’
‘Lovely idea… You’ll definitely be going back there, will you, after all this?’
‘Oh, sure. My kids…’
Then – out of the dark, after a minute or two of silence – ‘He’s got to be a very good man to deserve you, Angel.’
One of the things she’d remember all her life, she thought, as the gazo carried them through the Bois de Guillaume. Not only what he’d said, but that gravelly voice out of the surrounding darkness in which they’d both been very much aware that any such continuance – survival, to enjoy it – could only be a hope, never an assumption.
* * *
Pigot wasn’t in the garage, but Romeo had a key to the wrecked Ford’s boot; he extracted an old wireless-set and plugged it in, in the office. He checked his watch: 1915 Greenwich Mean Time meant 1745 Central European Time, and it was now 1754.
‘Just made it, Angel. If we’re lucky.’ In time, he meant, for the messages that would follow the bulletin. He lit their cigarettes: as an essential preliminary, she supposed – fretting, slightly… Twiddling knobs then, getting atmospherics as well as bursts of the usual jamming, and finally Bruce Belfridge’s voice, thin at first – summarizing, repeating the headlines. Palermo had fallen to Allied forces, Mussolini was thought to be on his
way out, Allied bombers had hit Rome.
Lost it again, in the jamming: the bit that mattered. Adjusting the tuning, microscopically…
Bernard vient d’acheter un complet neuf.
Good for him: but that would be news for someone else. Not that it mattered if she and Romeo missed out on theirs – as long as the others got it, Lebrun in Lyons-la-Forêt and Juvier in Beauvais. They’d have heard it last night and alerted their reception teams, would probably be with them now, straining their ears for this confirmation.
The broadcaster’s voice broke through a lot of crackling: ‘— est devenue malade.’
Rosie murmured, ‘There…’
Watching Romeo, who was still crouched over the wireless, glancing up smiling as the repetition came ‘Ma belle-soeur est devenue malade.’
* * *
She cycled through the town to Ursule’s. Romeo had given her the rations that were left – some stale sandwiches and an apple – and she might be able to make tea in Ursule’s kitchen, she thought. Ring César first, though, get that over. She was very tired suddenly, the exertions of the past few days catching up on her.
Jacqui’s money was all there, in the cavity under the floorboard, and she put the Mark III in with it, brushing dust over the board when it was back in place. The radio’s next use would be tomorrow night, the first of her listening-out routines; Baker Street might have some responses to her requests for drops, by then.
Really, one had achieved quite a lot.
She went down to see Ursule – who reminded her that a week’s rent was due, but agreed she could use her stove to boil a kettle – then went out to the telephone in the hallway. It took a few minutes to get Monsieur Rossier down to the Belle Femme’s telephone.
‘That you, Jeanne-Marie?’
‘I’m back, Michel darling. Ringing just to let you know all’s well. How are you, sweetheart?’
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